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By  M.  a.  DeWOLFE  HOWE 





COPYRIGHT,   1922 

CAMBRIDGE,  MAbS.,  U.  S.  A. 


As  in  the  two  preceding  volumes  of  this  series,  the 
memoirs  are  placed  in  the  chronological  sequence  of  the 
deaths  of  those  who  form  their  subjects.  The  second 
volume  dealt  with  the  Harvard  participants  in  the  war 
against  Germany,  fifty-one  in  number,  who  died  within  a 
year  of  the  entrance  of  the  United  States  into  that  war.  In 
this  volume  another  arbitrary  period  is  fixed,  and  the 
seventy-five  Harvard  men  who  died  between  April  7  and 
August  4,  1918  —  a  memorable  war  anniversary  —  are 

This  volume  bears  a  further  resemblance  to  its  predeces- 
sors in  that  the  memoirs  vary  considerably  in  length  and 
fullness ;  and  again  this  is  due  solely  to  the  wide  variation 
in  the  extent  and  character  of  the  material  which,  with  an 
equal  expenditure  of  effort  in  all  instances,  I  have  been 
able  to  secure. 

As  the  third  volume  comes  to  completion,  and  brings  the 
total  number  of  finished  memoirs  to  one  hundred  and 
fifty-six  I  am  confronted  with  the  fact  that  nearly  two 
hundred  and  twenty  more  remain  to  be  written.  I  had 
hoped  to  carry  the  task  single-handed  to  the  end,  for  there 
is  no  work  of  commemoration  in  which  one  could  engage 
with  greater  satisfaction.  But  in  fairness  both  to  Harvard 
and  to  its  sons,  the  dead  and  the  living,  the  work  should  be 
continued  with  more  rapidity  than  a  single  biographer, 
with  other  demands  upon  his  time,  can  possibly  hope  to 
achieve.    Accordingly  the  authorities  have  sanctioned  an 


arrangement  under  which  I  am  to  be  responsible  for  the 
two  remaining  volumes,  as  general  editor,  reserving  for 
myself  the  writing  of  certain  memoirs  and  distributing 
among  several  collaborators  of  special  competence  for  the 
undertaking  the  preparation  of  others. 

As  Volumes  I,  II,  and  III  have  appeared,  respectively, 
in  1920,  1921,  and  1922,  it  is  hoped  that  Volumes  IV  and  V 
will  appear,  under  this  arrangement,  in  1923  and  1924. 

M.  A.  DeW.  H. 

Boston,  October,  1922. 



Victor  Raleigh  Craigie      Graduate  School  of  Business 

Administration  1913-14  3 

Arthur  Harold  Webber     Class  of  w  15  7 

Franklin  Temple  Ingraham    Class  of  1914  12 

GusTAv  Hermann  Kissel    Class  of  1917  16 

Ernest  Edward  Weibel    Ph.D.  1916  20 

Arthur  Broadfield  Warren     Class  of  19 15  24 

William  Wallace  Thayer     Class  of  19 16  33 

Arthur  Russell  Gaylord    Law  1915-17  36 

Frederick  Arthur  Keep     Class  of  1915  38 

William  Key  Bond  Emerson,  Jr.     Class  of  1916  42 

Roger  Sherman  Dix,  Jr.     Class  of  1918  47 

James  Palache     Class  of  1918  51 

William  Noel  Hewitt     Class  of  1914.  55 

William  Dennison  Lyon     Class  of  1916  60 

Paul  Borda  Kurtz     Class  of  1916  67 

Richard  Mortimer,  Jr.     Class  of  I9ll  76 

Kenneth  Pickens  Culbert     Class  of  1917  82 

William  St.  Agnan  Stearns     Class  of  1917  99 

Henry  Ware  Clarke     Class  of  1916  105 

George  Guest  Haydock     Class  of  1916  114 

George  Buchanan  Redwood     Class  of  1910  144 

Henry  Corliss  Shaw     Class  of  1901  167 

Livingston  Low  Baker     Class  of  1913  HI 

Ona  Jefferson  Myers    Law  1912-13  170 

Philip  Washburn  Davis     Class  of  190S  1H4 

Guy  Norman     Class  of  1890  ~<^^ 


Roland  Jackson     Class  of  1916  212 

Gordon  Kaemmerling    Class  of  1912  216 

John  D wight  Filley,  Jr.     Class  of  1916  225 

EvERiT  Albert  Herter     Class  of  19U  229 

Ralph  Henry  Lasser     Class  of  1920  248 

Edward  Ball  Cole     Class  of  1902  271 

Alvah  Crocker,  Jr.     Class  of  1905  281 

Elliot  Adams  Chapin     Class  of  1918  293 

Goodwin  Warner     Class  of  1909  297 

Frederic  Percival  Clement,  Jr.     Class  of  1916  301 

Donald  Fairfax  Ray     LL.B.  wis  310 
Maxwell  Oswald  Parry     Gradvate  School  1911-12         314 

Dudley  GiLMAN  Tucker    Class  of  1907  318 

William  Vernon  Booth,  Jr.     Class  of  1913  334 

Claudius  Ralph  Farnsworth     Class' of  1917  344 

QuENTiN  Roosevelt     Class  of  1919  348 

George  Waite  Goodwin     Law  1916-17  374 

Homer  Atherton  Hunt     Class  of  1916  380 

George  Francis  McGillen    Class  of  1917  383 

Edmond  David  Stewart,  Jr.     Lato  1915-17  387 

Walton  Kimball  Smith     Laiv  1914-15  390 

Hugh  Charles  Blanchard     Class  of  1909  394 

John  Andrew  Doherty     Class  of  1916  399 

Kenneth  Eliot  Fuller     Class  of  1916  402 

Proctor  Calvin  Gilson    Laiv  1915-17  414 

Orville  Parker  Johnson     Class  of  1918  416 

Robert  MoRss  Lovett,  Jr.     Class  of  1918  421 

Lester  Clement  Barton     Laiv  1908-10  433 

Carleton  Burr     Class  of  1913  444 

Philip  Cunningham     Class  of  1918  471 

Clifford  Barker  Grayson     Law  1916-17  478 


Charles  Castner  Lilly     Class  of  1909  480 

Allen  Melancthon  Sumner    Class  of  190^  486 

David  Morse  Barry     Class  of  1915  490 

Howard  Walter  Beal     M.D.  1898  504 

Donald  Earl  Dunbar     Class  of  wis  507 

George  William  Ryley     Class  of  19 lo  513 
George  Alexander  McKiNLocK,  Jr.    Class  of  191G      519 

Ralph  Guye  White     Law  1913-16  545 

John  Shaw  Pfaffman     Class  of  191G  556 

Malcolm  Cotton  Brown     Class  of  1918  562 

Clark  Richardson  Lincoln    Medical  1899-1901  569 

Philip  Overton  Mills     Class  of  1905  574 

James  Augustin  McKenna,  Jr.     Class  of  1909  580 

Oliver  Ames,  Jr.     Class  of  1917  601 

Alan  Campbell  Clark     Class  of  1917  630 

Jason  Solon  Hunt    Law  1915-17  634 

Richard  Norton     Class  of  1892  640 

John  Vincent  Kelly     Class  of  1906  673 


Leaves  that  made  last  year  beautiful,  still  strevm 

Even  as  they  fell,  unchanged,  beneath  the  changing  moon. 

Alan  Seeger 


Graduate  School  of  Business  Administration 


V  ICTOR  Raleigh  Craigie  was  born  in  Canada,  May 
22,  1892,  the  son  of  Captain  Horace  Walpole  Craigie  of 
the  British  Army  and  Ehzabeth  Craigie,  both  deceased. 
When  he  was  not  quite  three  years  of  age  he  was  adopted 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Brown,  of  Boston.  He  received 
his  education  in  England,  at  the  Mount  Hermon  Prepara- 
tory School  in  western  Massachusetts,  at  tlie  Boston 
Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and,  for  the  academic  year  of  1913-14,  at 
the  Harvard  Graduate  School  of  Business  Administration, 
in  which  he  was  enrolled  as  a  special  student. 

He  had  entered  business  with  the  Berkshire  Life  In- 
surance Company  when  the  war  broke  out  in  Europe,  and 



abandoned  his  desire  to  enlist  in  the  Canadian  Army  only 
in  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  his  adoptive  mother. 
WTien  the  United  States  joined  in  the  war  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  Troop  A,  First  Squadron  of  Cavalry,  Massachusetts 
Volunteer  Militia,  trained  for  a  year  in  the  M.  V.  M. 
Training  School,  and  sought  admission  to  the  first  Platts- 
burg  camp.  For  this  he  was  found  ineligible  because  he 
had  not  secured  his  final  papers  of  American  citizenship. 
In  June,  1917,  he  enlisted  in  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  in 
Canada.  His  instruction  in  aviation  followed  at  Toronto 
University,  Camp  Mohawk,  Deseronto,  Camp  Borden, 
and  later  at  Taliaferro  Field,  Fort  Worth,  Texas.  Here 
he  became  the  best  machine  gun  shot  in  his  division.  Late 
in  November,  1917,  he  was  commissioned  second  lieu- 
tenant in  Toronto,  and  on  December  13  sailed  for  England. 
A  few  extracts  from  his  letters  reveal  his  satisfaction  in 
his  work  and  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  done.  From  Deser- 
onto he  wrote,  early  in  his  training: 

Well,  dear  mother,  I  have  flo\\Ti  two  hours  and  fifty  minutes 
today,  with  ten  landings.  Quite  a  big  day's  work  and  a  very 
tiring  one.  I  have  now  concluded  my  elementary  flying  of  five 
hours'  solo  and  fifteen  landings,  without  a  break  or  repair  to 
my  machine  —  a  good  record.  My  commanding  officer  and 
instructors  have  expressed  themselves  proud  of  the  results  of 
their  work. 

Cajmp  Borden, 
October  11. 

Took  a  cross-coimtry  run  to  Toronto  today,  but  returning 
got  lost  in  the  clouds.    On  reaching  the  aerodrome,  long  after 

dark,  was  greeted  by  the  O.  C.  vnth.  "where  the have  you 

been?    I  shall  put  you  under  arrest  for  taking  the  machine  off 
all  day."   "Sir,  I  was  lost,  but  have  brought  the  aeroplane  back 



safe  and  sound,  besides  making  seven  landings  outside  of  the 

aerodrome."     "Craigie,  you  have  done  well,  nine  of  the 

ten  would  have  crashed  five  out  of  six  times,  if  they  had  landed 
in  open  country  as  often  as  you  have  today,  besides  you  have 
made  one  of  the  best  landings  ever  pulled  off  in  this  aerodrome 
after  dark.  This  will  go  dowTi  in  the  reports  to  be  sent  to  Eng- 
land." This  ends  forty  hours  and  thirty  minutes  without  a 

November  17. 
A  few  days  ago  the  lieutenant  with  whom  I  did  my  first 
aerial  gunnery,  called  me  aside  and  placing  both  hands  upon 
my  shoulders  and  looking  me  straight  in  the  face  he  said: 
"Craigie,  I  never  realized  what  a  good  pilot  you  were  until  I 
had  had  several  pilots  up." 

November  23. 

At  last  our  course  is  over.  Brace  yourself,  dear  mother,  for 
the  time  for  going  overseas  is  near.  I  am  only  one  of  thousands 
that  are  on  their  way.  We  are  no  use  here,  let  us  keep  the 
loathsome  reptiles  over  there.  I  realize  it  will  be  hard  for  us 
both,  but  just  think  of  the  cause.  I  thank  God  that  I  have 
been  accepted  to   take  part  in  this  damnable  slaughter  for 

future  generations  and  the  race. 

Jannary  18. 

Dearest  mother,  certainly  I  forgive  you  for  not  allowing  me 

to  go  sooner.    I  felt  in  my  heart  that  it  was  my  duty,  and  it 

has  grieved  me  much  that  I  was  not  one  of  the  first  to  put  on 

the  harness  in  this  great  war  for  freedom  and  right.    However, 

may  God  spare  me  to  reach  the  German  lines.    They  are  quite 

near  and  yet  so,  so  far.    I  know  well  that  you  miss  me,  but  you 

also  must  be  a  soldier,  good  and  true.    The  world  needs  the 

brave  women  to  help  in  this  struggle. 

March  5. 

I  am  happy  in  my  work  and  the  mission  I  have  to  fulfill, 
although  I  am  having  terrible  luck  just  now.  The  scouts  are 
much  harder  to  fly  than  any  other  machine,  therefore  I  must 


expect  some  difficulty.     I  believe,  however,  that  I  am  well 

placed  in  the  scouts.    I  enjoy  aerial  fighting,  and  stunts  are 

second  nature  to  me  now. 

March  11. 

Well,  Nate,  old  boy,  every  pilot  has  to  have  his  first  crash. 
That  goes  without  saying,  and  is  as  true  as  Newton's  law  of 
gravity.  God  only  knows  when  or  where  the  second  is  likely 
to  take  place,  but  I  have  no  fear  of  it. 

His  training  in  England  took  place  at  Stockbridge  and 
at  Langmere,  near  Chichester.  There  on  April  7,  1918, 
he  met  his  death  through  a  collision  of  his  machine,  a 
one-man  scout,  with  another  machine  bearing  two  lieu- 
tenants. All  three  were  killed.  Craigie  was  buried  with 
full  military  honors  at  Chichester. 

About  a  week  before  his  death  he  had  written  home, 
March  30:  "I  am  likely  to  be  fighting  the  Huns  before 
this  letter  reaches  you,  in  fact  I  expect  the  call  daily. 
They  need  all  the  pilots  in  this  big  battle  now  raging. 
I  am  real  keen  to  get  into  the  scrap  and  wonder  what  my 
first  impressions  of  it  all  will  be." 

And  to  this  he  added:  "May  God  bless  and  keep  you 
safe,  dear  mother,  and  at  the  same  time  give  you  no  fears 
for  me." 



Class  of  1915 

iV-RTHUR  Harold  Webber,  son  of  the  late  Arthur 
Harrison  Webber  and  Lucie  Moore  (Morrison)  Webber, 
was  born  at  Cadillac,  Michigan,  July  1,  1892.  He  was 
prepared  for  college  at  the  Cadillac  High  School  and  Wor- 
cester Academy,  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  and  before 
coming  to  Harvard  spent  two  years  at  Olivet  College, 
Olivet,  Michigan,  where  he  acquitted  himself  well  both  in 
his  studies  and  in  student  affairs.  In  1912  he  entered 
Harvard  and  three  years  later  took  his  Bachelor  of  Arts 
degree  with  the  Class  of  1915.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
Theta  Delta  Chi  fraternity,  and  in  1914  held  the  office  of 
treasurer  in  the  Harvard  chapter.  A  letter  from  Cam- 
bridge to  his  mother,  written  in  his  junior  year,  is  full  of 



appreciation  of  what  he  was  learning  from  Dean  Briggs. 
A  portion  of  it  may  well  be  quoted,  if  only  for  the  light 
it  throws  upon  Webber  himself : 

For  all  his  erudition  he  is  never  a  positivist.  I  believe  that 
I  have  learned  something  from  that.  When  he  deals  with  a 
subject  that  he  feels  someone  might  have  had  more  experience 
with,  he  says  what  he  believes,  and  then  adds,  "Now  perhaps 
I  am  wrong.  If  so,  I  should  like  to  be  corrected."  When  he 
goes  over  your  themes  he  takes  the  time  to  make  witty,  trench- 
ant remarks  on  what  you  have  said,  as,  for  instance,  when  I 
wrote,  "Doctors  were  born  to  make  the  simple  complex,"  he 
wrote  under  this,  "I  thought  philosophers  had  a  monopoly  on 
this."  To  return  to  the  particular  morning  I  had  my  confer- 
ence with  him  —  I  shall  try  to  sum  up  some  of  his  comments. 
"Am  I  a  black  sheep?"  I  asked  him,  referring  to  my  standing 
in  the  class.  "Not  at  all,"  he  answered.  "You  do  your  work. 
But  you  are  not  a  clear,  well-trained  writer.  At  times,  though, 
you  write  a  line  that  is  masterly,  and  then  suddenly  you  plunge 
into  writing  that  is  evidently  not  the  result  of  clear  thinking. 
Apparently  you  have  never  been  forced  to  write  carefully. 
Your  elemental  work  has  been  faulty.  But  your  ideas  are  ex- 
cellent, fully  as  good  as  anyone's  in  the  class;  seldom  do  you 
express  them  properly.  Many  times  you  are  ingenious.  Your 
play  has  been  the  most  encouraging  thing  you  have  done  yet. 
It's  not  unusual,  but  shows  signs  of  promise,"  "Do  you  think," 
I  asked  anxiously,  "there  is  ever  a  chance  for  me  to  become, 
not  a  genius  or  remarkable  writer  —  I  don't  hope  for  that — but 
a  creditable  one?"  "Mr.  Webber,"  he  replied,  "that's  a  hard 
question  to  answer.  We  don't  know  who  may  turn  out  the 
best.    One  can't  tell,  but  you  are  by  no  means  hopeless." 

I  am  not  able  to  tell  you  the  way  he  expressed  what  he  said, 
and  in  these  snatches  of  conversation  there  is  n't  anything  that 
should  make  one  optimistic.  I  don't  think  he  wanted  me  to  be. 
He  said  just  enough  to  convince  me  that  I  had  something  to 
build  on,  knowing  that  what  I  had  done  up  to  the  present  time 



was  not  indicative  of  remarkable  power.  But  he  did  arouse  in 
me  the  fighting  instinct  and  I  went  out  of  his  oflSce  with  a  light 

In  view  of  the  interests  which  this  letter  reveals,  it  is  not 
surprising  to  find  in  the  First  Report  of  Webber's  class, 
published  in  May,  1916,  that  his  address  was  given  at  the 
publishing  office  of  Moffat,  Yard  and  Company,  in  New 
York.  In  order  to  be  nearer  home  he  afterwards  entered 
the  oflfice  of  H.  W.  Noble  and  Company,  investment  bank- 
ers in  Detroit,  and  was  associated  with  it  when  the  United 
States  entered  the  war.  Within  ten  days  of  that  time  he 
enlisted  at  Detroit  for  training  as  an  officer  in  the  armj^ 
and  in  May  was  sent  to  the  First  Officers'  Training  Camp 
at  Fort  Sheridan,  Illinois.  A  letter  to  his  mother  from 
that  place  speaks  of  the  spirit  in  w^hich  he  took  up  his 
work  as  a  soldier: 

I  did  n't  tell  you,  but  when  I  came  to  the  camp  here  I  re- 
solved that  I  would  serve  my  country  as  I  had  never  served 
myself,  that  I  would  not  do  anything  that  would  stand  in  the 
way  of  my  moral  or  physical  well-being.  I  want  you  to  know 
that  I  shall  live  just  as  clean  and  fine  as  I  know  how  and  fulfil 
your  expectations  of  me.  No  nation  bent  on  aggrandizement, 
proceeding  without  scruple  and  without  justice  can  hope  to 
whip  a  clean,  noble-spirited  United  States,  and  I  want  my  bit 
to  be  just  as  fine  a  "bit"  as  I  can  contribute. 

Before  Webber  had  completed  his  course  at  Fort 
Sheridan,  there  w^as  a  call  for  men  in  the  aviation  service. 
To  this  he  responded,  and  secured  a  transfer  from  the 
OflScers'  Training  Camp,  enabling  him  to  enlist  at  Colum- 
bus, Ohio,  in  the  British  Royal  Air  Force.  After  some 
training  at  Toronto  with  the  43d  Wing  of  this  force,  he 



was  sent  to  Fort  Worth,  Texas,  where  he  quahfied  as  a 
pilot,  received  his  commission  as  second  Heutenant,  and 
was  assigned  to  the  84th  Aero  Squadron,  in  the  training 
of  which  Vernon  Castle  of  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  met 
his  death  on  February  25.  Flying  alone  at  Fort  Worth  on 
April  10,  1918,  Webber's  machine  suddenly  got  out  of 
control,  and  he  was  instantly  killed  in  the  resulting  fall. 

On  the  day  before  his  death  he  had  written  his  mother 
a  letter  which  reached  her  the  day  after  she  received  the 
telegram  announcing  his  fatal  accident.  It  contained  the 
following  passages : 

I  have  just  concluded  a  day  of  very  satisfactory  flying.  I 
have  put  in  fifty  landings  now,  which  is  the  completion  of  ele- 
mentary solo  work.  My  stunt  consignment  was  forced  land- 
ings. It  often  happens  in  flying  that  your  engine  gives  out  and 
you  have  to  come  down  where  you  are.  You  have  but  a  few 
minutes  to  choose  your  landing  ground  and  must  do  some  quick 
thinking  and  acting.  I  went  up  almost  2500  feet  and  shut  off 
the  throttle,  beginning  a  spiral  dive  towards  the  earth. 

Friday  we  shall  be  out  of  here,  like  the  circuses,  in  the  early 
morning  with  our  tents  packed  up  and  our  entire  outfit  on  the 
way  to  Toronto.  I  believe  Fort  Worth  will  miss  us,  for  the 
cadets  and  officers  and  mechanics  have  been  most  cordially 
received  here  and  have  made  a  multitude  of  friends,  as  the 
reporter  would  say. 

After  referring  to  recent  losses  among  his  comrades  by 
death,  he  wrote: 

These  happenings,  however,  are  as  nothing  to  the  future  with 
dark  war  clouds  hovering  over  us.  There 's  only  one  philosophy 
to  tide  us  over  the  fatalistic  conclusion  that  God  offers  us  the 
inevitable,  and  we  must  accept  it  graciously,  though  it  clutches 
our  hearts  and  robs  us  of  that  which  we  hold  most  dear. 



Webber's  body  was  taken  to  Cadillac,  Michigan,  for 
burial.  In  evidence  of  the  esteem  in  which  he  was  held 
in  his  native  place,  fifty  of  the  leading  business  men  of 
the  city  met  the  train  on  which  the  body  arrived  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  accompanied  it  to  his  mother's 
house.  On  the  day  of  his  funeral  the  mayor  issued  the 
following  proclamation : 

As  an  expression  of  the  sorrow  that  has  come  to  our  city  and 
in  recognition  of  our  loss  in  the  death  of  Harold  Webber,  our 
city's  first  soldier  to  give  up  his  life  in  the  war  now  in  progress, 
I  would  respectfully  ask  that  all  places  of  business  be  closed  up 
Tuesday  afternoon  from  two  to  four  o'clock,  the  hours  of  the 
funeral.  I  hope  this  mark  of  sympathy  for  those  who  are  be- 
reaved and  this  expression  of  our  care  for  our  country  and  its 
defenders  will  be  generally  observed. 



Class  of  1914 

x!  RANKLiN  Temple  Ingraham,  born  May  23,  1891, 
at  Wellesley,  Massachusetts,  a  son  of  Franklin  Benton 
Ingraham  and  Elizabeth  Temple  (Webb)  Ingraham  of 
that  town,  a  brother  of  Paul  Webb  Ingraham  (Harvard, 
'17),  "was  one  of  those  rare  men"  —  in  the  words  of  a 
classmate — "who  never  made  an  enemy  and  whose 
friends  were  among  the  hundreds."  Quite  as  much  as  the 
facts  of  his  brief  military  record,  the  affection  and  respect 
that  he  won  in  all  his  relations,  at  school,  in  college,  in 
business,  in  the  army,  should  be  chronicled  in  any  account 
of  his  life. 

His  preparation  for  college  was  made  at  the  Wellesley 
High  School.    Entering  Harvard  with  the  Class  of  1914, 



he  became  a  member  of  the  University  Mandohn,  Dra- 
matic, and  Pi  Eta  Clubs.  He  greatly  enjoyed  his  human 
contacts,  and  was  expert  and  enthusiastic  in  the  pursuit 
of  many  outdoor  and  indoor  sports  and  games.  While  in 
college  he  joined  Battery  A,  Massachusetts  Volunteer 
Militia,  though  for  social  rather  than  military  considera- 
tions, as  the  war  in  Europe  was  not  yet  to  be  taken  into 
account  by  undergraduates.  On  his  graduation  from  Har- 
vard he  went  to  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Tech- 
nology, where,  from  1914  to  1916,  he  was  a  student  of 
civil  engineering. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  this  period  that  he  had  his  first 
experience  of  military  life,  when  Massachusetts  troops 
were  ordered  to  the  Mexican  border.  His  physique  was 
always  slender,  and  in  his  family  it  became  a  question 
whether  this  call  to  service  in  a  subtropical  climate  was 
so  imperative  that  he  ought  to  respond  to  it.  "I  think  I 
should  go  with  the  rest,"  he  said,  and  adhered  to  this 
decision,  with  a  clear  recognition  of  its  possible  cost.  He 
went  and  returned  in  good  health  —  except  for  greatly 
reduced  weight,  which  he  never  recovered  —  having 
greatly  enjoyed  his  association  with  kindred  spirits,  and 
content  that  he  had  done  his  part. 

Ingraham  then  entered  the  employ  of  the  Roebling 
wire  works  at  Trenton,  New  Jersey.  Here  he  had  won 
both  confidence  and  promotion  when  the  United  States 
entered  the  war.  The  Roebling  mills  were  making  war 
material,  and  he  might  well  have  regarded  himself  as 
playing  a  useful  part  in  this  enterprise.  On  the  contrary, 
he  determined  to  enter  the  army,  though  his  weight,  far 
below  the  required   minimum,   rendered  him   ineligible. 



He  successively  sought  to  enter  the  Engineer  Corps,  the 
Ordnance  Department,  expressly  for  service  abroad,  and 
the  Coast  Artillery  Corps,  in  which  he  passed  an  examina- 
tion for  a  commission.  Becoming  impatient  at  the  long 
delay  in  receiving  a  report  upon  this  application,  and 
heeding  the  appeal  of  aviation  to  his  love  of  sports,  he 
enlisted  in  September,  1917,  as  a  private,  first  class,  in 
the  Aviation  Section  of  the  Signal  Corps.  Having  passed 
successfully  through  the  ground  school  training  at  the 
Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technology,  he  was  detailed 
to  Mineola,  Long  Island,  whence  he  expected  to  be  sent 
immediately  overseas  with  his  section  for  final  instruction 
in  aviation.  Instead  he  received,  on  October  26,  the  de- 
layed commission  as  provisional  second  lieutenant  in  the 
Coast  Artillery  Corps,  U.  S.  Army.  By  this  time  he  had 
gone  so  far  in  aviation  that  he  would  have  preferred  to 
remain  in  that  branch  of  service,  but  on  the  advice  of  his 
commanding  officer  he  accepted  his  commission  and  ap- 
plied for  transfer  to  the  flying  squadron.  This  was  re- 
fused, and  reluctantly  but  cheerfully  he  went,  December 
1,  to  Fortress  Monroe,  Virginia,  for  a  new  routine  of  mili- 
tary drill. 

Here  he  made  a  new  group  of  devoted  and  most  con- 
genial friends,  and  here  he  passed  a  trying  winter  in  cold 
barracks  —  an  experience  which  probably  had  a  direct 
bearing  upon  his  final  illness.  Near  the  end  of  his  train- 
ing course,  he  applied,  with  forty  others,  for  aerial  obser- 
vation service  in  connection  with  the  Coast  Artillery,  and 
was  one  of  fifteen  who  passed  the  examination,  the  last  of 
a  series  of  hard  physical  tests  in  the  army.  On  April  1, 
1918,  he  obtained  a  ten  days'  leave  of  absence  to  visit  his 



family  before  entering  on  the  special  aerial  training  for  the 
work  to  which  he  aspired.  He  came  home  sick,  and  on 
April  11  died  at  Wellesley  of  pneumonia,  with  a  smile 
and  a  cheerful  word  on  his  lips. 

A  multitude  of  friends  and  comrades  in  college,  training 
camps,  and  business  bore  witness  to  their  appreciation 
of  his  lovable  characteristics  and  their  gratitude  for  what 
his  life  had  already  achieved. 



Class  of  1917 

Vjtustav  Hermann  Kissel  was  a  son  of  Rudolph 
Hermann  Ejssel,  senior  member  of  the  New  York  banking 
firm  of  Kissel,  Kinnicutt  and  Company,  and  Caroline 
(Morgan)  Kissel.  He  was  born  at  Washington,  D.  C, 
March  3, 1895.  Until  he  entered  Milton  Academy  in  1909, 
his  boyhood  was  spent  in  Washington  and  Morristown, 
New  Jersey.  At  Milton  he  learned  easily  and  stood  high 
in  his  studies.  For  two  years  he  was  a  member  of  the  school 
hockey  team,  and  in  his  last  year  was  one  of  the  four  moni- 
tors chosen  by  his  schoolmates.  Entering  Harvard  with 
the  Class  of  1917,  he  continued  his  interest  in  hockey  as 
a  member  of  the  freshman  team,  and  was  for  three  years 
a  member  of  the  second  University  team.     He  belonged 



also  to  the  Institute  of  1770,  D.  K.  E.,  Stylus,  O.  K., 
Hasty  Pudding,  and  Spee  Clubs,  of  the  last  of  which  he 
was  vice-president.  With  many  others  of  his  class  he 
left  college  in  the  spring  of  1917,  but  his  work  as  a  student 
had  been  such  that  at  the  Commencement  of  1918,  shortly 
after  his  death,  the  degree  of  A.B.  was  awarded  to  him, 
cum  laude. 

On  May  17,  1917,  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  Aviation 
Section  of  the  Signal  Corps  in  the  United  States  Army. 
For  eight  weeks  he  studied  aviation  at  the  ground  school 
of  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technology,  and  on 
July  17  sailed  for  France  on  the  Orduna,  with  the  first 
American  aviation  squadron  to  set  out  for  the  front. 
This  was  under  the  command  of  Kissel's  brother-in-law. 
Captain  James  Ely  Miller,  who  was  killed  in  the  following 
March  in  aerial  combat.  In  the  same  squadron  were 
Kissel's  classmate,  WiUiam  Smith  Ely,  besides  his  younger 
Harvard  contemporaries,  Quentin  Roosevelt,  and  Hamil- 
ton Coolidge,  all  to  lose  their  lives  as  aviators. 

Kissel  spent  August  and  September  in  Paris  as  a  cadet 
in  aviation,  attached  to  the  American  Expeditionary 
Forces  but  unassigned.  On  September  27  he  received  his 
commission  as  first  lieutenant,  and  proceeded  immediately 
to  England  for  aviation  training  at  the  Central  Flying 
Station  of  Upavon,  Wiltshire,  and  at  Ayr,  in  Scotland. 
On  December  3  he  received  his  British  wings.  On  March 
18,  1918,  he  went  to  the  front,  attached  to  Squadron  43 
of  the  British  Royal  Air  Forces.  In  a  letter  of  March  30 
Kissel,  after  describing  his  life  at  Ayr,  wrote: 

I  was  then  ordered  overseas  in  active  service  with  a  British 
squadron  and  here  I  am  in  the  midst  of  the  "big  noise."    This 



is  a  great  squadron  and  I  am  enjoying  myself  immensely.  I 
won't  cross  the  lines  as  a  war  pilot  for  a  week  or  so,  because  I 
must  first  fly  around  and  learn  the  country.  We  are  billeted 
in  the  town,  and  I  have  a  most  comfortable  and  "honest-to- 
God"  bed  in  an  old  French  woman's  house.  The  other  ofiicers 
seem  to  be  fine  fellows,  and  all  in  all,  I  could  n't  wish  for  a 
pleasanter  way  to  meet  the  Hun,  particularly  as  my  work  itself 
is  bound  to  be  most  interesting  and  exciting. 

It  was  for  a  Harvard  friend  and  classmate,  George  C. 

Whiting,  who  had  been  in  training  with  him  at  Ayr  and 

afterwards  was  attached  to  the  same  British  squadron  in 

,the  field,  to  write  after  Kissel's  death,  of  his  qualities  as 

an  aviator: 

At  Ayr  he  won  for  himself  the  respect  and  admiration  of  the 
staff  as  the  most  brilliant  flyer  —  English  or  American  —  that 
had  ever  gone  through  the  school.  He  was  without  exception 
the  most  perfect  "camel"  pilot  I  have  ever  seen,  and  when  he 
came  to  "43"  he  at  once  took  the  position  of  the  squadron's 
best  flyer.  As  you  doubtless  know,  a  pilot  upon  reaching  a 
squadron  in  the  field  has  about  two  weeks  to  get  acclimated 
and  familiar  with  the  country  before  starting  war  flying.  Dur- 
ing this  time  your  son  had  made  a  reputation  for  himself 
throughout  the  entire  wing.  It  was  generally  predicted  that 
he  would  surely  be  America's  leading  ace. 

Less  than  a  month  after  Kissel  reached  the  front  he  fell, 
April  12,  1918,  near  Merville,  France,  in  combat.  On 
the  following  day  Major  C.  C.  Miles,  commanding  the 
43d  Squadron,  wrote  to  Kissel's  father: 

I  am  very  sorry  indeed  to  have  to  inform  you  that  your  son 
was  missing  on  12/4.  I  have  every  hope  that  he  is  a  prisoner 
and  unhurt,  particularly  as  he  was  an  exceptionally  fine  pilot 
and  would  not  easily  be  shot  down  by  any  Hun.    He  was  last 



seen  fighting  an  Albatross  and  was  "all  over"  the  Hun  for 
manoeuvre.  I  am  afraid  that  after  this  he  must  have  got 
separated  from  the  patrol  and  lost  himself  and  been  compelled 
to  land  behind  the  lines. 

He  is  a  very  great  loss  to  this  squadron,  as  I  am  certain  he 
would  have  done  exceptionally  fine  work.  He  was  a  wonderful 
pilot — one  of  the  finest  natural  pilots  I  have  ever  seen — and 
very  keen  indeed. 

In  greater  detail  his  friend,  Whiting,  wrote  nearly  a 
year  later : 

I  was  with  him  on  his  first  "show"  and  know  as  well  as  any- 
one how  he  was  brought  down,  but  I  assure  you  that  if  Major 
Miles  was  vague  in  writing  you  he  told  you  all  we  knew. 

In  a  dog  fight  such  as  we  were  engaged  in,  things  happen  so 
quickly  that  one  scarcely  knows  what  is  going  on.  On  this 
particular  occasion  we  were  attacked  by  greatly  superior  num- 
bers from  above,  and  at  the  first  burst  two  of  our  machines  went 
down.  One  I  saw  falling  past  me  in  flames  —  the  pilot  evidently 
shot  —  and  the  other  crashed  on  the  ground.  It  was  pure  bad 
luck  that  your  son  was  hit,  as  the  Hun  seldom  makes  a  score  on 
the  first  burst.  Except  at  very  close  range  an  enemy  machine 
is  not  generally  regarded  as  dangerous. 

Your  son  was  naturally  put  in  the  best  flight  in  the  squadron 
and  under  a  flight  commander  who  was  regarded  as  one  of  the 
best  and  most  experienced  in  the  R.  A.  F. 

In  the  Triennial  Report  of  the  Class  of  1917,  Kissel's 
classmate,  Laurence  M.  Lombard,  has  written: 

Those  of  us  who  knew  Gustav  well,  who  appreciated  his 
steadfast  character,  and  keen,  alert  intellect,  are  not  surprised 
at  his  brilliant  record  in  aviation.  We  knew  his  quiet,  unasser- 
tive manner  and  cheerfulness  would  make  friends  for  him 
wherever  he  went.  To  us  these  gratifying  reports  of  his  last 
few  months  are  merely  a  confirmation  of  our  belief. 



Ph.D.  1916 

JCiRNEST  Edward  WEiBEL,[the  inventor  of  "Captain 
Weibel's  method"  for  locating  enemy  batteries,  was  a 
student  at  the  Graduate  School  of  Arts  and  Sciences  for  a 
single  year,  1915-16,  at  the  end  of  which  he  received  the 
Harvard  degree  of  Ph.D. 

He  was  the  son  of  Edward  Albert  Weibel  and  Annie 
Sabina  (Holzapfel)  Weibel,  native  Kansans,  whose  parents, 



respectively,  were  Swiss  and  German  emigrants.  He  was 
born  at  Eudora,  Kansas,  August  5,  1889,  and  attended  the 
grade  and  high  schools  at  Colony,  Kansas,  graduating  at 
the  age  of  seventeen.  He  entered  the  University  of  Kan- 
sas in  1906,  and  graduated  from  its  School  of  Engineer- 
ing, with  the  degree  of  B.S.,  in  1911.  His  quickness  in 
mastering  his  studies  enabled  him  while  in  college  to  de- 
vote almost  all  of  his  time  to  the  physics  laboratory  and 
the  power  plant  of  the  local  Edison  Company.  Before  his 
graduation  he  also  held  a  position  for  some  time  in  the 
Bureau  of  Standards  at  Washington.  He  became  a  mem- 
ber of  the  honorary  scientific  fraternity,  Sigma  Psi. 
Tennis  and  music  were  his  recreations,  and  there  was 
hardly  an  instrument  on  which  he  could  not  play. 

Immediately  after  leaving  college  he  began  his  longer 
service  at  the  National  Bureau  of  Standards.  This  was 
interrupted  by  a  year  of  study  and  teaching  (1912-13) 
at  Cornell  and  by  that  other  year  in  Cambridge  to  which 
reference  has  been  made.  At  Harvard  he  held  a  Whiting 
Fellowship  in  Physics,  and  on  winning  his  Ph.D.  degree 
returned  again  to  the  Bureau  of  Standards  as  assistant 
physicist.  In  this  position  he  remained  until,  in  Decem- 
ber, 1917,  he  was  commissioned  captain.  Engineer  Corps, 
United  States  Army.  At  the  Bureau  of  Standards  he  per- 
fected several  pieces  of  apparatus  afterwards  put  into  use, 
among  them  a  device  for  detecting  hydrogen  gas  in  sub- 
marines. His  work  on  the  "range  locator"  began  about 
July  15,  1917.  Not  until  it  was  successfully  tested  did  he 
receive  his  commission,  and  it  was  to  put  the  apparatus 
into  use  as  a  protection  of  our  troops  from  the  enemy's 
gases  that  he  was  sent  overseas. 



Early  in  February,  1918,  he  sailed  for  France,  and  was 
immediately  attached  to  G-2  C,  G.H.Q.,  A.E.F.  Though 
technically  and  more  specifically  attached  to  Company  B, 
29th  Engineers,  he  was  trained,  with  all  the  other  officers 
of  the  "Sound  and  Flash  Ranging  Service"  of  the  Ameri- 
can Army,  with  the  British,  and  spent  two  weeks  of  in- 
struction near  the  G.H.Q.,  B.E.F.  This  was  followed 
by  four  weeks  at  a  front  line  station,  known  as  U-Sound 
Ranging  Section,  First  Field  Survey  Company,  British 
Royal  Engineers. 

On  April  8,  the  section  to  which  he  was  attached  was 
heavily  shelled,  and  all  hands  were  forced  to  take  refuge 
in  a  cellar.  When  they  came  up  to  clear  away  the  damage 
a  gas  attack  began,  and  so  little  was  its  severity  realized 
that  the  whole  section  was  seriously  affected  by  it,  and 
all  the  officers  were  casualties.  Weibel  was  taken  the 
next  morning  to  the  hospital.  Number  6  Clearing  Station, 
immediately  contracted  pneumonia,  and  died  April  12. 
He  was  buried  the  next  day  in  a  British  cemetery  near 
Bethune,  where,  at  the  wishes  of  his  parents,  his  body  has 
remained.  The  Post  of  the  American  Legion  at  Colony, 
Kansas,  bears  his  name. 

"He  was  such  a  happy  personality,"  writes  his  friend 
Thomas  Amory  Lee  (Harvard,  LL.B.  '13),  "with  such 
keenness  of  intellect  and  so  much  cordiality  that  he  won 
friends  wherever  he  happened  to  be.  A  letter  from  Major 
Augustus  Trowbridge,  who  had  had  Captain  Weibel  in 
his  command,  expressed  his  great  personal  appreciation 
of  Weibel's  ability  and  added  that  he  quickly  mastered 
the  technique  of  his  temporary  profession,  won  the  esteem 



of   the  British  officers  —  and  his  charming   personality 
evidently  quite  won  their  friendship," 

Apart  from  all  his  personal  qualities,  it  was  Captain 
Weibel's  peculiar  good  fortune  to  make,  through  his  scien- 
tific attainments,  a  definite  and  valuable  contribution  to 
the  conduct  of  the  war  from  which  his  own  service  was  so 
soon  cut  off. 



Class  of  1915 

Arthur  Broadfield  Warren  was  born  in  Waban, 
Massachusetts,  February  25,  1894,  a  son  of  Herbert  Lang- 
ford  Warren  and  Catharine  Clark  (Reed)  Warren.  His 
father,  who  died  in  1917,  was  the  first  dean  of  the  Harvard 
School  of  Architecture,  a  scholar  and  humanist  educated  in 
England  and  Germany,  who  for  twenty-five  years  made  an 



important  contribution  to  the  work  of  the  University  as 
an  agency  of  liberal  education.  His  mother,  who  died  late 
in  1920,  was  a  daughter  of  the  Reverend  James  Reed 
(Harvard,  '55),  of  Boston,  President  of  the  New  Church 
(Swedenborgian)  Theological  School  of  Cambridge  from 
1894  to  1908.  His  ancestry  was  American  and  English 
far  back  into  the  history  both  of  his  native  land  and  of  the 
mother  country. 

When  he  was  about  two  years  old  his  family  moved  to 
Cambridge,  which  was  thenceforth  his  home.     But  for 
one  year  in  Munich,  Germany,  where  he  was  a  student  at 
Dr.  Coit's  School,  he  received  his  preparation  for  college 
in  the  Cambridge  public  schools.     In  1911  he  graduated 
from  the  Cambridge  Latin  School  and  entered  Harvard. 
At  his  graduation  with  the  Class  of  1915  he  received  the 
degree  of  A.B.  magna  cum  laiide.    In  college  he  specialized 
in  German,  and  in  order  to  perfect  himself  in  that  language 
he  spent  the  summer  of  1914  in  Germany  as  a  special 
student  at  the  University  of  Marburg.     He  returned  to 
Harvard  in  the  autumn  after  many  interesting  experiences 
in  Germany  during  the  first  few  weeks  of  the  war.    Govern- 
ment regulation  had  compelled  him  to  leave  the  University, 
and  he  seized  the  opportunity  to  visit  Frankfort  and  Berlin 
and  other  German  cities  before  he  was  obliged  to  return 
to  America.     The  atmosphere  surrounding  him  through 
these  early  days  of  excitement  made  him  temporarily  pro- 
German;  but  his  homeward  journey  was  via  England,  and 
through  what  he  learned  there  he  became  rather  more 
rabidly  anti-German  than  most  of  his  countrymen. 

During  the  academic  year  of  1915-16  he  taught  French 
and  German  at  the  Hallock  School  in  Great  Barrington, 



Massachusetts.  In  the  autumn  of  1916  he  returned  to 
Harvard  to  study  for  a  master's  degree  in  Romance 
Languages.  At  the  same  time  he  was  receiving  military 
instruction  in  the  Harvard  R.  O.  T.  C,  and  in  May,  1917, 
he  left  college  to  enter  the  first  Plattsburg  camp.  At  the 
1917  Commencement  the  degree  of  A.M.  was  awarded  to 
him.  He  meant  to  continue  his  studies  after  the  war  but 
was  undecided  whether  to  seek  his  Ph.D.  at  Harvard  or 
abroad.  His  earlier  wish  had  been  to  take  it  at  a  German 
university,  but  of  course  the  war  altered  that. 

At  the  end  of  the  Plattsburg  course  he  received  his 
commission  a?  second  lieutenant  in  the  infantry,  and  was 
assigned  to  Camp  Devens.  After  a  few  days  there  he  was 
ordered,  September  10,  1917,  to  Company  H,  167th  U.  S. 
Infantry,  a  regiment  of  the  42d  ("Rainbow")  Division. 
Formerly  the  4th  Alabama  National  Guard,  it  was  now 
augmented  to  war  strength  by  combination  with  portions 
of  other  regiments.  With  this  company  and  regiment 
Warren  served  until  his  death. 

The  company  was  in  training  at  Camp  Mills,  Mineola, 
Long  Island,  until  November  5,  1917,  when  it  left  for 
Montreal.  Arriving  there  early  in  the  morning  of  Novem- 
ber 6,  it  embarked  on  the  Ascania,  landed  in  Liverpool, 
and  proceeded  to  W  inchester,  where  it  arrived  December  1 . 
A  week  later  it  embarked  at  Southampton  for  Havre, 
reaching  there  December  8  and  going  to  Rest  Camp  Num- 
ber 2.  On  December  11  it  left  the  rest  camp,  in  the  famous 
"Hommes  40,  Chevaux  8,"  arriving  at  St.  Blin  on  the  13th. 
The  men  immediately  began  clearing  mud  from  the  streets 
and  policing  the  untidy  yards.  Warren's  knowledge  of 
French  made  him  particularly  useful  in  that  work  and 



enabled  him  to  obtain  far  better  quarters  for  his  platoon 
than  the  average. 

They  left  St.  Blin  the  day  after  Christmas  and  made  a 
three  days'  march  through  a  heavy  snowstorm  to  Leffonds. 
Here  the  drill  was  more  practical,  and  within  sound  of  big 
guns  in  Alsace  the  men  practised  the  manoeuvres  they 
were  later  to  use  in  action.  On  February  16,  1918,  they 
left  Leffonds  for  a  town  nearer  the  lines,  getting  into  the 
trenches  in  March.  At  this  stage  of  his  career,  while  the 
official  interpreter  was  absent,  Warren  took  his  place.  His 
first  experience  in  the  trenches  w^as  on  March  6,  1918,  in 
a  quiet  part  of  the  Lorraine  sector.  It  was  really  more  in 
the  nature  of  training  than  fighting,  although  some  casual- 
ties resulted  from  shell  fire. 

Early  in  April,  while  acting  as  officer  in  charge  of  the 
ammunition  detail  at  night  and  in  charge  of  his  platoon 
during  the  daytime,  Warren  fell  ill.  After  a  few  days  of 
working  in  spite  of  his  illness  he  was  sent  to  the  hospital 
at  Baccarat  where  he  died  on  April  15,  1918,  of  what 
proved  to  be  an  unusually  malignant  form  of  scarlet 

Such  is  the  bare  outline  of  his  scholastic  and  military 
career.  For  the  personal  qualitj^  of  the  man  himself  the 
following  passages  from  W^arren's  letters  written  under 
arms  may  well  speak: 

March  3,  19  IS. 

Here  I  am  sitting  hj  a  desk  in  a  comfortable  warm  room  with 
a  nice  cushy  staff  job.  Yesterday  I  was  appointed  acting  ])at- 
talion  adjutant  to  take  the  place  for  a  few  days  of  the  regular 
adjutant,  who  is  visiting  the  front.  I  have  been  sitting  in  the 
office  all  morning,  sending  out  messages  and  memoranda  by  the 



orderlies  and  very  much  enjoying  life,  which  is  enlivened  now 
and  then  by  a  rumble  and  roar  from  the  big  guns,  reminding  one 
that  the  Boche  is  still  alive  and  kicking. 

Another  job  has  devolved  upon  me  lately.  The  official  inter- 
preter is  away,  and  I  have  been  called  upon  to  do  my  best, 
which  still  is  pretty  poor,  with  French  officers  and  civilians.  The 
difficulty  of  language  causes  innumerable  misunderstandings, 
some  of  which  I  have  had  to  straighten  out,  as  well  as  interpret- 
ing when  French  officers  blow  in  to  give  our  officers  some  dope, 
to  explain  plans,  etc.  Yesterday,  while  I  was  busy  at  battalion 
headquarters,  a  French  private  came  in  and  asked  for  an  inter- 
preter. No  better  man  was  available,  so  I  stepped  over  to 
French  headquarters  (there  is  a  French  detachment  in  the  same 
village)  and  found  there  an  old  French  peasant,  who  claimed  to 
have  been  maltreated  by  the  American  soldiers  billeted  in  his 

It  was  only  a  misunderstanding  arising  out  of  the  difference 
in  language.  The  old  Frenchman  could  not  make  them  under- 
stand what  he  wanted,  got  violently  excited  apparently,  as  they 
always  do,  talked  very  fast  and  waved  his  arms  about;  and  the 
Alabamans,  a  rough,  quick-tempered  lot,  always  spoiling  for  a 
fight,  lost  their  tempers.  It  is  hard  enough  for  me  to  keep  patient 
with  these  people  when  they  get  going,  even  though  I  under- 
stand them,  for  they  would  rather  talk  than  eat,  and  never  give 
you  a  chance  to  get  in  a  word  edgewise  when  you  are  doing  your 
darnedest  to  help  them.  Of  course,  the  soldiers  had  no  business 
to  rough  him  up  the  way  they  did,  but  that  is  the  only  way  they 
know  of  settling  difficulties.  The  French  lieutenant  with  whom 
I  talked  is  a  prince  of  a  fellow,  and  we  succeeded  in  calming  the 
old  man  with  assurances  that  in  the  future  the  soldiers  would 
show  the  proper  respect  due  to  his  age,  and  observe  his  rights  as 
a  private  citizen.  We  had  no  trouble  between  the  French  people 
and  the  soldiers  in  other  towns,  but  these  people  are  sick  of  hav- 
ing their  barns  and  houses  used  as  billets,  and  are  harder  to  get 
on  with. 




Just  a  hasty  pencilled  line  in  the  wee  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing. I  am  still  very  much  alive,  well  and  happy.  I  don't  really 
think  it  is  the  happiness  of  self-sacrifice,  as  you  say,  but  the  hap- 
piness of  human  nature. 

I  have  settled  down  to  regular  hours  again  but  they  are  just 
the  reverse  of  those  to  which  I  am  accustomed.  I  sleep  all  day 
and  am  up  all  night.  By  that  arrangement  I  get  very  little  ex- 
ercise, for  most  of  the  night  I  am  sitting  in  a  dugout.  But  for 
that  matter,  of  course  there  is  less  opportunity  for  exercise  in  the 
trenches  at  all  times  than  during  the  period  of  training:  there 
is  so  little  room  to  move  about.  I  rather  miss  the  bright  sun- 
shine which  those  who  work  in  the  daytime  are  enjoying,  but  the 
stars  are  very  friendly  companions.  It  is  comforting  to  look 
at  them  and  find  the  same  stars  that  I  used  to  see  from  the  roof 
piazza  of  "The  Ledges."  Stars  have  more  personality  and  in- 
dividuality than  the  sun,  anyway. 

I  think  people  at  home  get  the  idea  that  the  trenches  are 
perpetually  a  blazing  hell,  reeking  with  blood  and  horrible  with 
martial  sounds.  I  did  not  realize  myself,  till  I  got  here,  how 
much  one  sits  around  and  watches,  without  doing  anything. 

We  are  sitting  here,  they  are  sitting  there;  we  shell  them  once 
in  a  while,  they  shell  us.  We  take  a  shot  in  the  dark  at  a  sus- 
picious sound,  they  spatter  some  harmless  machine  gun  bullets 
over  our  heads.  Neither  side  accomplishes  anything.  The  men 
are  getting  impatient.  They  want  to  go  over  and  get  them,  and 
some  day  they  are  going  to  do  it.  They  are  in  excellent  si)irits, 
absolutely  without  fear,  and  eager  for  action. 

In  the  Trenches, 
March  9,  19  IS. 

I  was  up  all  last  night  as  officer  of  the  guard  and  I  'm  so  sleepy 
now  that  I  can  scarcely  hold  my  head  up,  but  I  think  I  can  man- 
age to  send  you  some  sort  of  a  letter.  Mail  has  been  hitting  me 
heavily  lately,  after  a  long  interval  of  no  news  from  home. 

After  a  cold  night  we  are  having  a  beautiful  spring  day,  with 



}>lue  sky  and  bright  sunshine,  with  just  enough  chill  on  the  edge 
of  the  air  to  make  it  interesting  and  restful.  The  birds  are 
tweeting  away  in  the  trees  and  but  for  the  whirr  of  an  aeroplane 
one  would  n't  know  there  was  a  war  going  on.  However,  they 
are  likely  to  throw  a  shell  over  here  any  moment;  you  never  can 
tell  when  they'll  start.  Or  perhaps  a  machine  gun  somewhere 
on  the  line  will  start  its  rat-tat-tat,  like  an  automatic  riveter  on 
a  New  York  skyscraper.  Bam!  there  goes  a  solitary  shell  off  to 
my  right.  I'll  let  the  shrapnel  punctuate  this  letter  and  write 
bam  whenever  one  explodes.  Bam!  the  blooming  things  are 
rather  troublesome  sometimes.  Last  night  one  destroyed  500 
cigarettes  that  one  of  the  men  had  just  received  from  home,  and 
cigarettes,  you  know,  are  a  priceless  possession,  being  necessary 
to  a  soldier's  comfort  and  welfare  and  difficult  to  obtain. 

One  of  the  things  that  impresses  me  most  about  this  trench 
warfare  is  the  amount  of  ammunition  they  waste.  Somebody 
gets  tired  of  sitting  around  beside  a  lovely  looking  gun  with 
nothing  to  do,  hates  to  see  the  ammunition  lying  idle  beside  him, 
so  he  fires  a  few  shots  just  for  luck,  without  particularly  seeing 
what  he  is  shooting  at.  Bam!  Of  course  they  knock  a  little  hole 
in  the  parapet  once  in  a  while  —  bam!  —  but  it  costs  them  a 
good  deal  to  do  it.  I  believe  some  one  has  figured  it  out  that  if 
one  man  had  been  killed  by  every  grenade  thrown  in  this  war, 
there  would  be  no  one  left  alive  in  the  world.  From  my  experi- 
ence so  far  I  should  say  that  life  in  the  trenches  is  rather  —  bam! 
—  dull  and  monotonous.  So  far,  I  have  not  found  it  all  uncom- 
fortable. The  weather  —  bam!  —  conditions  —  bam!  —  have 
been  good  and  my  dugout  is  not  a  bad  place  to  live,  although  it 
is  rather  crowded.    Bam! 

The  French  people  are  awfully  unconcerned  —  bam!  bam!  — 
about  the  war.  In  the  villages  close  behind  the  lines,  they  go 
about  their  work  and  lead  their  perfectly  humdrum  lives  just 
exactly  as  if  nothing  were  going  on.  Wlien  the  French  anti- 
aircraft guns  begin  —  bam!  —  shelling  a  German  plane,  they 
rarely  stop  to  look  or  perhaps  merely  glance  up  for  a  moment, 



shrug  their  shoulders,  murmur  "Boche,"  and  go  on  piling  ma- 
nurfe  by  the  front  doorway,  which  is  a  principal  occupation  in 
every  French  household  in  the  small  villages  of  this  particular 
"somewhere,"  at  least. 

I  am  very  much  interested  in  the  newspapers  that  your 
mother  occasionally  sends  me  —  ham!  bam!  ham!  ham!  —  I  read 
in  one  of  them  an  article  by  Frank  Simonds  on  the  big  German 
drive  which  all  the  military  critics  are  expecting.  Bam!  bam! 
about  nine  times  at  an  aeroplane!  When  you  are  on  the  line 
yourself,  or  close  behind  it,  as  I  was  when  I  received  this  par- 
ticular Herald  it  is  —  bam!  —  unusually  interesting  to  see  where 
they  think  the  big  spring  Boche  drive  is  going  to  come.  Bam! 
The  pictures  in  the  Sunday  Herald  —  bam!  —  I  am  mighty  glad 
to  get  too.  Bam!  People  at  home  seem  to  know  more  about  the 
war  than  I  do,  and  American  newspapers  are  much  more  in- 
teresting than  the  French.  I  could  —  batn!  —  tell  you  what  is 
going  on  right  where  I  am,  but  I  hear  nothing  of  the  rest  of  the 

March  19,  1918. 

I  enjoyed  my  stretch  in  the  trenches  very  much.  Fortune 
favored  us  with  beautiful  weather,  which  still  continues,  and 
when  the  ground  is  dry  and  the  air  balmy,  war  is  not  bad  at  all, 
even  if  a  few  machine  gun  bullets  do  sing  past  your  ear  once  in 
a  while,  or  an  H.  E.  shell  comes  hurtling  through  the  tree  tops. 
The  Boche  proved  himself  a  very  poor  shot,  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, and,  except  for  one  solitary  fragment  from  a  shell  that 
burst  in  the  air,  which  struck  the  ground  within  a  few  feet  of  me, 
he  did  n't  come  anywhere  near  me.  An  incident  like  that  is  so 
trifling  as  not  really  to  be  worth  mentioning;  for  no  one  regards 
it  as  a  narrow  escape.  It  is  astonishing  how  many  shells  explode 
near  one  and  how  many  bullets  one  hears  without  being  hit  by 

We  are  now  billeted  again  in  one  of  the  typical  French  vil- 
lages of  which  I  have  now  seen  more  than  a  few.  The  day  we 
arrived  was  hot  and  glorious  with  blue  sky  and  sunshine.    The 



regimental  band  greeted  us,  as  we  marched  into  the  village,  with 
military  marches  and  popular  airs;  and  although  we  were  all 
tired  from  our  lack  of  sleep,  and  dirty  from  our  stay  in  the  dug- 
outs, we  picked  up  our  feet  and  held  our  heads  erect  when  we 
heard  the  music.  There  is  nothing  like  a  good  band,  and  we 
have  a  crackerjack,  to  restore  our  spirits  and  freshen  exhausted 

I  am  now  back  at  my  old  game  of  making  friends  with  the 
French  peasants,  and  have  already  captured  the  heart  of  one 
little  old  woman,  crooked  and  dried  up,  homely  as  a  board  fence, 
but  cheerful  and  open-hearted.  She  seized  upon  me  as  soon  as 
she  found  I  could  speak  French,  bids  me  an  effusive,  "Bon  jour, 
m'sieur,"  whenever  I  pass  her  house,  and  feeds  me  apples  when 
no  one  else  is  looking.  I  imagine  she  does  n't  want  it  too  gen- 
erally known  that  she  has  a  cellar  full  of  most  delicious  apples. 

The  old  "game  of  making  friends"  was  to  end  all  too 



Class  of  1916 

William  Wallace  Thayer,  a  son  of  William  Foote 
Thayer  and  Martha  Horton  (Sterns)  Thayer,  was  born  at 
Westfield,  Massachusetts,  June  25, 1895.  When  he  was  ten 
years  old  his  parents  moved  to  Somerville,  Massachusetts, 
and  there  he  graduated  from  the  Latin  High  School  in  1912. 
The  minister  of  the  church  at  Winter  Hill  with  which  his 



family  became  closely  associated,   the  Rev.   Charles  L. 
Noyes,  has  written  of  him : 

He  was  the  most  promising  youth  of  his  generation  among  us 
—  a  very  engaging,  attractive,  intelligent,  capable  personality, 
commanding  respect  as  of  one  beyond  his  years.  He  was, 
though  slight,  promising  to  have  the  stature  of  a  man  above  the 
average,  and  with  a  dignity  of  bearing  which  spoke  a  gift  of 
leadership.  This  he  showed  among  his  contemporaries,  always 
being  the  spokesman,  initiator,  leader  in  sports,  organizations, 
debates,  etc.,  among  the  young  people.  He  early  gave  evidence 
of  powers  of  expression,  and  public  address.  He  was  gaining  in 
literary  forms,  and  was  thoughtful,  serious,  logical,  and  effective 
as  a  speaker.  He  was  of  a  noble,  generous,  pure,  and  high- 
minded  disposition  and  character,  being  an  influence  toward 
all  that  was  honorable  and  excellent  among  his  associates. 

He  entered  Harvard  College  with  the  Class  of  1916,  of 
which  he  remained  a  member  for  only  two  years.  Through 
that  time  he  lived  at  home,  and  except  for  playing  lacrosse 
in  his  freshman  year,  took  but  little  part  in  undergraduate 
life  outside  the  classrooms.  At  the  end  of  his  sophomore 
year  he  left  Harvard  and  entered  the  Massachusetts 
Agricultural  College  at  Amherst,  Massachusetts.  Here  he 
joined  the  Lambda  Chi  Alpha  fraternity,  in  which  he  was 
much  beloved,  and  became  a  member  of  the  college  glee 
and  mandolin  clubs,  an  officer  of  his  class,  and  the  author 
of  one  of  the  college  songs.  The  new  conditions  of  his 
life  provided  opportunities,  which  he  was  quick  to  seize, 
for  the  exercise  of  leadership. 

His  degree  at  Amherst  was  awarded  to  him  in  June, 
1917,  though  he  had  left  the  college  in  May  of  that  year 
to  enter  the  First  Officers'  Training  Camp  at  Plattsburg. 
On  August  15  he  was  commissioned  second  lieutenant  of 



infantry,  and  ordered  to  Camp  Devens,  where  he  was 
assigned  to  Company  B,  301st  Infantry,  76th  Division. 
The  strain  and  exposure  of  mihtary  duties  proved  too 
much  for  his  physical  endurance,  and  in  December, 
stricken  with  tuberculosis,  he  left  Devens  for  the  home  of 
his  parents.  Uncomplaining,  cheerful,  and  courageous, 
he  maintained  a  losing  fight  with  his  illness  until  April  19, 
1919,  when  he  died  at  Somerville.  He  was  buried  at  West- 
field,  the  place  of  his  birth. 

At  the  Harvard  Commencement  of  1920  his  name  was 
enrolled  among  those  to  whom  the  war  degree  of  A.B.  was 
awarded,  as  of  the  Class  of  1916. 



Law  School  1915-17 

Arthur  Russell  Gaylord,  born  at  Minneapolis, 
Minnesota,  March  1,  1893,  was  a  son  of  Edson  S.  Gaylord, 
a  lawyer  of  that  city,  and  Louise  (March)  Gaylord,  and 
traced  descent  from  William  Gaylord,  an  early  settler 
both  of  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  and  of  Windsor,  Con- 
necticut.   He  attended  the  grade  schools  and  the  North 



High  School  of  MinneapoHs,  from  which  he  graduated 
in  1911.  Four  years  later  he  took  the  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Arts  at  the  University  of  Minnesota,  and  proceeded  at 
once,  in  the  autumn  of  1915,  to  the  Harvard  Law  School, 
Here  he  was  nearing  the  end  of  his  second  year  of  legal 
study  when  war  was  declared. 

In  May,  1917,  he  entered  the  Officers'  Training  Camp  at 
Fort  Snelling,  Minnesota.  On  August  15  he  was  commis- 
sioned first  lieutenant  of  infantry,  and  on  September  12, 
ordered  overseas  as  an  observer,  and  for  further  instruc- 
tion sailed  from  New  York  for  France.  Arriving  there 
about  October  1,  he  received  his  first  foreign  training  at 
the  Franco-American  Infantry  School  at  La  Valbonne. 
On  November  12  he  was  assigned  to  the  18th  Infantry, 
First  Division,  and  with  this  regiment  continued  his  train- 
ing at  Houdelaincourt,  Meuse. 

Early  in  January,  1918,  the  regiment  was  transferred  to 
the  front  trenches  northwest  of  Toul.  Here  Gay  lord  par- 
ticipated in  repelling  enemy  attacks  on  January  26  and 
March  1.  For  the  unit  of  which  he  was  a  member  there 
was  no  lack  of  vital  service.  Late  in  March  he  joined  the 
Fifth  Army  in  front  of  Amiens  at  Cantigny,  and  early  in 
April  was  transferred  to  the  Picardy  front,  near  Mont- 
didier.  Here  at  Villers-Tournelle,  on  April  28,  Gaylord 
was  killed  in  action. 



Class  of  1915 

Jb  REDERiCK  Arthur  Keep,  born  at  Wollaston,  Mas- 
sachusetts, November  23,  1892,  was  the  only  son  of 
Frederick  Heber  Keep  and  Alice  Leavitt  (Canney)  Keep. 
He  was  prepared  for  college  at  the  public  schools  of  Mil- 
ton, Massachusetts,  the  home  of  his  parents,  and  at 
Milton  Academy.  Entering  Harvard  with  the  Class  of 
1915,  he  left  college  in  January  of  his  sophomore  year, 



and  became  a  reporter,  first  on  the  Springfield  Unioji, 
then  on  the  New  Bedford  Standard,  and  was  afterwards 
a  special  correspondent  of  the  Cleveland  News.  Return- 
ing to  Cambridge  in  the  autumn  of  1916,  he  brought  to 
his  work  the  maturer  point  of  view  that  resulted  from  his 
experience  in  journalism,  and  applied  himself  especially 
to  studies  in  literature  which  might  fortify  his  own  equip- 
ment for  writing.  The  death  of  his  onh^  sister  in  Decem- 
ber of  this  year  affected  him  deeply,  and  as  war  became 
more  clearly  inevitable  the  conflict  of  Keep's  duties  to 
his  parents  and  to  his  country  must  have  grown  acute. 
Such  college  interests  as  his  membership  in  the  Kappa 
Gamma  Chi  fraternity  were  soon  swallowed  up,  as  with 
so  many  other  students  in  1916-17,  in  the  problem  of  his 
personal  relation  to  the  war.  By  April  his  mind  seems 
to  have  been  c^uite  made  up,  for  immediately  upon  the 
declaration  of  war  by  the  United  States  he  went  to  Wash- 
ington and  offered  himself  as  a  candidate  for  an  aviator's 
commission.  He  was  examined  and  told  to  hold  himself 
in  readiness  for  a  call  to  be  made  as  soon  as  the  necessary 
equipment  should  be  ready. 

As  a  member  of  the  Harvard  R.  0.  T.  C,  he  was  one 
of  the  color-bearers  at  the  review  of  the  Harvard  Regiment 
by  Marshal  Joffre  in  the  Stadium  in  May,  1917.  On  May 
13,  1917,  he  went  to  the  first  R.  O,  T,  C.  camp  at  Platts- 
burg,  and  received  his  commission  as  a  second  lieutenant 
of  infantry  on  August  13.  For  a  few  days  in  August  he 
was  attached  to  the  304th  Infantry  at  Camp  Devens. 
On  August  31  he  was  sent  to  Camp  Borden,  Ontario,  for 
instruction  in  machine  gunnery  and  military  aeronautics 
with  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  —  one  of  the  first  ten  oflricers 



chosen  from  various  camps  for  this  purpose.  After  further 
instruction  in  aeronautics  at  Toronto  University  and  at 
Cadet  Wing,  Royal  Flying  Corps,  Long  Branch,  Toronto, 
Ontario,  the  aviation  ground  school  connected  with  the 
School  of  Military  Aeronautics,  he  was  ordered  Novem- 
ber 10,  1917,  to  TaHaferro  Field,  Fort  Worth,  Texas, 
where  he  was  attached  to  the  28th  Aero  Squadron  as  a 
second  lieutenant,  S.  R.  C,  A.  S. 

Here  he  stood  always  among  the  first  to  volunteer  for 
hazardous  duty,  and  won  the  commendation  of  his  su- 
perior officers  for  his  tireless  enthusiasm  and  devotion  to 
duty  during  the  trying  times  when  there  were  few  to  carry 
on  the  organization  of  this  camp.  On  November  23  he 
met  with  serious  injury  in  an  airplane  crash,  and  was  sent 
to  the  base  hospital  at  Fort  Worth,  suffering  from  a  com- 
pound fracture  of  one  of  his  legs  and  a  broken  hip.  He 
was  later  transferred  to  the  Army  and  Navy  Hospital  at 
Hot  Springs,  Arkansas.  After  a  short  leave  of  absence 
to  his  home,  he  reported  for  duty  again  on  March  21, 
1918,  and  was  assigned  to  the  78th  Aero  Squadron  at 
Taliaferro  Field,  the  28th,  to  which  he  was  previously 
attached,  having  gone  overseas  in  January. 

On  May  3,  while  in  the  air  with  a  fellow-officer,  his  plane 
got  into  a  tail-spin  at  2000  feet,  and  he  was  unable  to  right 
it  before  crashing.  The  severe  injuries  he  received  proved 
fatal  three  days  later.  His  body  was  taken  to  his  home, 
and  on  May  10  received  burial  in  Milton  Cemetery  with 
full  military  honors. 

At  the  Harvard  Commencement  of  1920  the  war  degree 
of  A.B.  was  awarded  to  Frederick  Arthur  Keep  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Class  of  1915. 



One  of  Keep's  classmates  speaks  of  him,  in  the  Second 
Report  of  the  Class  of  1915,  as  "almost  abnormally  shy 
and  sensitive,"  and  armed,  when  in  casual  company, 
"with  an  aloof  and  half  cynical  manner."  His  friends 
recognized  in  him  "high  courage,  dash,  and  fighting 
spirit";  but  in  the  words  of  his  class  biographer,  "only 
those  who  sat  with  him  in  his  room  in  Wadsworth  during 
some  of  the  long  spring  evenings,  or  around  the  wood  fire, 
in  winter,  really  knew  the  man." 



Class  of  1916 

xiiMERSON's  unselfishness  was  as  natural  and  as  un- 
conscious as  his  breathing;  to  him  it  was  the  simplest 
thing  in  the  world  quietly  to  give  his  life  that  the  world 
might  be  better." 

These  are  the  terms  in  which  Frederick  Winsor  (Har- 
vard, '93)  spoke  of  William  Key  Bond  Emerson,  Jr.,  at  a 
memorial  service  held  at  the  Middlesex  School,  Concord, 
Massachusetts,  immediately  after  his  death.  The  young 
man  who  earned  such  praise  was  born  in  New  York  City, 
April  9,  1894,  the  eldest  son  of  William  Key  Bond  Emer- 
son and  Maria  Holmes  (Furman)  Emerson,  At  Middle- 
sex, from  which  he  entered  Harvard  in  the  autumn  of 
1912,  he  was  for  six  years  a  prominent  and  popular  figure 



in  the  life  of  the  school.  "During  the  first  few  years," 
it  is  recorded  of  him  in  "  Middlesex  School  in  the  War," 
"he  played  on  the  lower  football  teams  and  rowed  on  the 
Sudbury  crews,  but  in  both  his  second  and  first  class  years 
he  was  a  member  of  the  first  School  team  and  crew.  In- 
terested in  everything  that  was  going  on.  Bill  was  always 
among  the  leaders  in  the  School,  and  earned  for  himself  a 
reputation  as  a  hard  worker  and  true  sportsman.  What- 
ever he  did,  he  gave  his  best  to,  and  it  was  this  quality  in 
him,  perhaps,  more  than  anything  else  that  brought  him 
always  to  the  front." 

In  college  he  played  on  his  sophomore  and  junior  class 
football  teams,  and  rowed  on  the  victorious  sophomore 
crew  in  1914.  In  that  year  he  was  secretary  of  the 
Crimson.  He  belonged  to  the  Institute  of  1770,  D.  K.  E., 
Stylus,  Signet,  Hasty  Pudding,  and  Spee  Clubs.  "His 
interest  in  his  studies,"  in  the  words  of  the  Class  of  1916's 
Memorial  Report  (1920),  "was  intense,  particularly  in 
French  and  in  literature.  It  was  in  the  latter  that  he  de- 
veloped so  strongly  the  ideals  which  led  him  to  his  long 
war  record  and  to  his  glorious  death." 

That  record  began  in  the  summer  of  his  junior  year, 
1915,  when  he  joined  the  American  Field  Service,  went 
to  France,  and  served  with  Section  9  of  the  ambulance 
corps  in  the  Vosges.  Of  his  work  at  that  time  the  leader 
of  the  section  afterwards  wrote:  "He  was  so  straight- 
forward and  so  true  and  such  a  gentleman  through  and 
through.  He  had  a  great  sense  of  duty  and  loyalty,  and 
was  morally  as  well  as  physically  courageous.  He  was 
always  so  eager  to  do  more  than  his  share  that  he  was  an 
inspiration  to  those  about  him;   and  ever  cheerful,  kind, 



and  thoughtful,  he  won  the  very  deep  affection  and  re- 
spect of  everyone." 

In  January,  1916,  Emerson  returned  to  Harvard,  and 
in  the  following  June  graduated  with  his  class.  While 
abroad  he  determined  to  study  aeronautics,  and  for  this 
purpose  entered  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technol- 
ogy in  the  autumn  of  1916  after  a  term  of  special  prepara- 
tion at  the  summer  school  of  Columbia  University.  But 
the  call  of  active  service  was  too  strong  for  him,  and  in 
January,  1917,  he  left  the  Tech,  reenlisted  in  the  Ameri- 
can Field  Service,  and  returned  to  France.  Here  he  was 
assigned  at  first  to  Section  13  attached  to  a  French 
division  taking  part  in  the  Champagne  offensive;  but 
he  was  soon  transferred  to  his  old  section.  Number  3, 
then  engaged,  as  readers  of  the  memoir  of  Henry  Brewster 
Palmer,  '10,^  will  remember,  in  service  of  intense  activity 
on  the  Salonika  front.  Here  Emerson  acquitted  himself 
with  such  credit  that  he  won  a  citation  for  the  Croix  de 
Guerre,  bestowed  for  conspicuous  bravery  while  evacuat- 
ing wounded  under  shell-fire  near  Monastir. 

The  time  for  which  Emerson  had  impatiently  waited 
was  now  come,  and  after  the  United  States  entered  the 
war  he  wrote  from  Serbia,  "Many  less  able-bodied  men 
than  I  could  fill  my  place  here,  and  I  feel  very  strongly 
that  I  should  be  fighting  with  our  troops  in  France."  To 
this  end  he  left  the  Balkans,  and,  without  returning  to 
the  United  States,  succeeded  in  France  in  obtaining  a 
commission  as  second  lieutenant,  field  artillery,  in  the 
army  of  his  country.  Assigned  to  the  French  Officers'  Ar- 
tillery School  at  Valdahon  for  instruction  as  an  observer, 

1  See  Vol.  II,  p.  171. 


he  made  an  admirable  record,  described  in  "Middlesex 
School  in  the  War"  in  the  following  terms: 

Thanks  to  his  perseverance  and  to  his  mathematical  knowl- 
edge he  graduated  at  the  head  of  his  class  and  was  for  a  time 
made  instructor  at  the  school.  His  letters  describing  this  were 
very  characteristic,  as  he  emphasized  not  the  pride  of  accom- 
plishment but  his  regret  at  the  possibility  of  hurting  other  men 
who  had  gone  through  the  class  with  him,  and  were  now  put 
under  him  for  instruction.  For  the  last  week  of  his  stay  there, 
although  he  was  one  of  the  youngest  men  in  the  school,  he  was 
given  entire  charge  of  it,  according  to  the  report  of  one  of  his 

His  training  at  Valdahon  was  completed  in  February, 
1918.  He  was  then  assigned,  for  a  brief  period,  to  the 
15th  Field  Artillery,  U.  S.  A.,  afterwards  to  the  228th 
French  Escadrille,  for  further  aerial  training,  and  finally, 
at  the  beginning  of  May,  1918,  to  the  12th  Aero  Squadron, 
U.  S.  A.,  then  in  the  Toul  sector.  His  work  was  that  of 
an  artillery  observer.  On  one  of  his  first  flights  over  the 
lines,  on  May  14,  the  plane  in  which  he  and  his  pilot, 
Lieutenant  C.  M.  Angell  (Technology,  '18),  were  flying 
was  shot  down,  near  Toul,  and  both  men  were  killed. 
Another  young  Harvard  officer,  Kenneth  Pickens  Culbert, 
'17,  attached  to  an  aero  squadron,  and  destined  himself 
to  fall  just  a  week  after  Emerson,  wrote  to  Professor 
Copeland  on  May  21st,  two  days  before  his  own  death: 
"Billy  Emerson,  '16,  was  the  sixth  [of  a  small  club],  but 
I  regret  to  tell  you  that  last  taps  were  sounded  for  him 
last  week.  W'e  do  not  know  whether  the  antis  got  him, 
or  whether  it  was  a  Boche  plane.  He  went  out  on  a 
reglage  and  was  shot  down  in  our  lines.    He  was  an  honor 



to  Harvard,  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier,  and  the  first  of  our 
little  club  to  gain  the  one  glorious  epitaph." 

Emerson  was  buried  in  the  American  Cemetery  at 
Vignot,  in  France.  The  aviation  field  at  Camp  Jackson, 
South  Carolina,  was  named,  in  honor  of  this  first  American 
officer  killed  in  action  as  an  aerial  observer,  Emerson 
Field.  With  the  final  words  about  him  in  the  Memorial 
Report  of  his  class  this  memoir  may  most  fitly  end: 

Those  of  us  who  had  met  Bill  socially  liked  him,  those  of  us 
who  called  him  friend  loved  him.  He  was  always  unselfish; 
always  cheerful;  always  upright.  We  never  knew  him  to  do 
a  selfish  act;  we  never  saw  him  without  a  cheery  grin;  we 
never  knew  him  to  betray  a  confidence.  He  was  always  the 
same  Bill.  He  was  never  wanting  when  we  needed  a  friend, 
and  he  was  always  solidly  behind  us  when  we  needed  support 
in  a  right  course. 

We  shall  always  hold  his  memory  as  a  shining  example  of 
one  who  gave  his  all,  unselfishly  and  willingly,  to  the  glorious 
cause  of  liberty. 



Class  of  1918 

JLVOGER  Sherman  Dix,  Jr.,  a  son  of  Roger  Sherman 
Dix  and  Louise  (Parish)  Dix,  of  Boston  and  Greenbush, 
Massachusetts,  was  born  in  Boston,  December  9,  1896. 
He  was  prepared  for  college  at  the  Country  Day  School 
for  Boys  of  Boston,  Newton,  Massachusetts,  and  entered 
Harvard  with  the  class  of  1918.  There  he  was  a  member 
of  the  Country  Day  School  Club  and  of  Kappa  Sigma. 
He  also  joined  the  Harvard  Regiment,  and  attended  two 
Plattsburg  camps.  At  the  end  of  his  junior  year  he  left 
college  to  enlist  in  the  American  Field  Service  and  in  July 
was  attached  to  Section  One  near  Verdun.  This  veteran 
section  had  seen  hard  service  since  January,  1915,  and 
between  July  and  October,  1917,  the  term  of  Dix's  con- 



nection  with  it,  won  an  army  citation  with  pahn,  "for  its 
vahant  conduct  at  Verdun  in  August,  1917,  when  every- 
body admired  its  audacity  and  zeal  notwithstanding  the 
continued  bombardment  of  the  roads  by  large  asphyxiat- 
ing shells;  nor  was  there  any  interruption  of  its  service, 
though  suffering  severe  losses."  ^  Both  the  dangers  and 
humors  of  the  time  are  recalled  in  the  pages  of  William 
Yorke  Stevenson's  diary,  "From  Poilu  to  Yank."  ^  Here 
may  be  found  an  amusing  glimpse  of  Dix: 

The  latest  method  to  rehabilitate  blesses,  particularly 
"couches,"  is  to  be  stopped  by  a  cut  road  or  smashed-up  "ravi- 
taillement "  train  while  shells  are  coming  in.  Stout,  Dix,  Buell, 
and  several  others  report  remarkable  resurrections.  "Couches" 
get  out  and  run  like  deer;  while  "assis"  make  regular  Annette 
Kellerman  dives  into  "abris.""  Dix  had  to  go  up  and  down  a 
line  of  dug-outs  shouting:  "Ousong  mes  blesses!  Ousong  mes 
blesses! "  for  half  an  hour  the  other  night  before  he  finally  cor- 
ralled them  and  proceeded  on  his  way. 

A  little  later,  when  the  section  was  disbanded  in  October, 
Dix  was  among  those  named  by  Mr.  Stevenson  as  under 
treatment  at  the  Johns  Hopkins  Hospital  nearby  for 
injury  from  gassing.  In  November,  however,  he  was 
ready  to  enlist  in  the  United  States  Aviation  Service, 
which  he  did.  Through  the  lack  of  American  planes  he 
was  obliged  to  remain  inactive  during  the  winter.  In  the 
spring,  though  wishing  to  be  trained  as  a  pilot,  he  was 
informed  that  he  would  be  sent  sooner  to  the  front  if  he 
should  take  his  training  as  an  observer.    Accordingly  he 

^  History  of  the  American  Ambulance  Field  Service  in  France,  Vol.  I, 
p.  187. 

2  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.     1918. 



became  one  of  twenty-five  Americans  to  volunteer  for 
instruction  as  bombing  observers  at  the  French  Bombing 
School  at  Le  Crotoy,  Somme,  in  the  expectation  of  reach- 
ing the  front  for  the  spring  offensive.  He  received  his 
commission  as  second  lieutenant,  May  12,  1918, 

Three  days  later,  his  instruction  completed,  with  credit 
for  the  highest  marks  in  his  class,  the  prospect  of  going 
to  the  front  within  a  week  clearly  in  view,  he  was  flying 
at  Le  Crotoy  with  a  French  pilot  when  their  plane  col- 
lapsed at  the  height  of  about  six  hundred  feet,  and  both 
Dix  and  the  pilot  were  killed.  A  French  flyer  at  the  school 
summed  up  the  tragedy  as  the  tongue  of  the  mot  juste 
could  best  express  it:  "Co7nme  les  autresfois,  il  etait  parti 
confiant,  joyeux,  et  plein  d'entrain.  Helas,  la  mort  stwpide 
s'est  troiive  sur  son  cheynin." 

The  twenty-four  surviving  members  of  Dix's  class  at 
the  Bombing  School  signed  their  names  on  the  day  after 
his  death  to  the  following  letter  addressed  to  his  father: 

None  of  the  twenty-four  flying  cadets  of  this  detachment,  of 
which  your  son,  Roger  S.  Dix,  was  a  member,  has  words  to 
express  to  you  how  deeply  we  feel  his  loss  to  you,  to  us,  and  to 
the  American  Expeditionary  Force.  Cadet  Dix  was  easily  the 
most  popular  member  of  this  detachment.  He  was  a  loyal, 
gallant  soldier,  an  assiduous  student,  an  excellent  airman  and  a 
splendid  companion.  Every  man  counted  him  his  friend  and 
he  had  never  failed  us.  His  fearlessness,  his  coolness  and  his 
intrepidity  had  made  it  a  foregone  conclusion  that  his  career 
in  his  chosen  service  would  have  been  brilliantly  distinguished, 
and  his  tragic  death  is  a  double  loss  to  us  and  to  the  Army, 
because  he  was  the  possessor  of  such  splendid  qualities. 

The  undersigned,  his  comrades,  feel,  therefore,  that  it  is  no 
less  than  their  duty  to  subscribe  to  this  memorial  and  to  express 



to  you,  sir,  their  heartfelt  sympathy  in  your  loss.  We  have  lost 
a  splendid  comrade,  the  Expeditionary  Force  a  fine  soldier,  and 
yourself  a  noble  son. 

At  the  same  time  First  Lieutenant  John  L.  Glover,  in 
command  of  these  men,  wrote: 

I  wish  also  to  sign  my  name  to  the  above  memorial  and  to 
tell  you  that,  although  your  son  had  only  been  in  my  command 
for  six  weeks,  in  that  short  time  I  found  him  to  be  a  most  ex- 
cellent soldier  both  on  the  ground  and  in  the  air.  He  was  on 
his  last  training  flight,  and  was  to  have  received  the  highest 
honors  of  any  of  my  command  for  his  work  here.  He  died  while 
doing  work  in  the  air  and  while  holding  the  position  of  the  first 
in  his  class.    More  glory  than  this  no  man  can  claim  for  his  son. 



Class  of  1918 

d  AMES  Palache  was  born  in  Berkeley,  California, 
July  8,  1896.  His  father,  Whitney  Palache,  a  brother  of 
Charles  Palache,  professor  of  mineralogy  in  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, was  manager  of  the  Pacific  branch  of  the  Hartford 
Fire  Insurance  Company,  and  is  now  American  manager 
of  the  Commercial  Union  Assurance  Company  of  London. 



His  grandfather,  James  Palache,  a  native  of  New  York, 
sailed  round  the  Horn  in  1849,  and  lived  thereafter  in 
San  Francisco  and  Berkeley.  His  mother,  Belle  White 
(Garber)  Palache,  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Judge  John 
Garber,  a  native  of  Virginia,  a  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court 
of  Nevada,  a  leading  lawyer  of  San  Francisco,  appointed 
to  the  Canal  Commission  by  President  Roosevelt  in  1904, 
but  prevented  by  his  health  from  accepting  the  appoint- 

James  Palache  attended  the  Randolph  School  in  Berke- 
ley and  the  Thacher  School  in  southern  California;  he 
entered  Trinity  College,  Hartford,  Connecticut,  in  1913, 
and  enrolled  in  the  Class  of  1918  at  Harvard  the  following 
year.  In  childhood,  in  school,  in  college,  in  the  Army,  the 
affection  of  his  friends  always  testified  to  the  charm  of  his 
personality  and  character.  At  Harvard  he  was  manager 
of  the  freshman  baseball  team,  a  member  of  the  freshman 
and  sophomore  Finance  Committee  of  his  class  and  mem- 
ber of  the  Institute  of  1770,  D.  K.  E.,  Speakers',  Western, 
Staplers,  Phoenix,  and  Hasty  Pudding  Clubs. 

In  the  summer  of  1916  he  took  military  training  at  the 
camp  at  Plattsburg.  In  the  spring  of  1917  he  joined  the 
first  R.  O.  T.  C.  at  Harvard,  and  in  May  went  to  the  first 
Plattsburg  camp  for  officers.  After  finishing  this  course, 
he  was  commissioned  a  provisional  second  lieutenant  in 
the  Regular  Army,  and  sailed  for  France  January  15, 1918, 
where  for  two  months  he  was  under  further  training. 

In  March,  1918,  after  a  visit  to  the  French  lines,  he  was 
assigned  to  Company  E,  18th  Infantrj^  First  Division,  as 
second  lieutenant,  and  first  commanded  his  platoon  in 
the  Cantigny  sector.     The  new  trenches  assigned  to  this 



platoon  were  quickly  and  efficiently  prepared.  He  took 
an  active  part  in  many  coups  de  main  and  won  great 
confidence  from  his  men,  who  were  devoted  to  his  leader- 
ship, exercised  on  many  occasions  when  there  was  no 
necessity  for  his  personal  participation,  and  when,  ordi- 
narily, a  non-commissioned  oflScer  would  have  directed 
the  men.  Thus  he  was  known  as  one  of  the  most  popular 
younger  officers  in  the  First  Division. 

On  April  12,  1918,  he  wrote  to  his  father,  "I  have  a 
wonderful  platoon,  and  need  all  my  sense  of  balance  to 
keep  from  showing  my  pride  too  much.  To-day  we  were 
highly  complimented  by  the  captain  and  the  Frenchmen 
who  watched  it  work  out.  However,  I  have  found  this 
out  —  the  men  in  the  ranks  are  the  most  important  ones, 
and  what  they  do,  or  do  not  do,  counts.  To  get  them  be- 
hind you,  and  working  with  you,  is  an  officer's  only  job  — 
once  that  is  obtained,  the  rest  is  easy."  In  a  later  letter, 
he  spoke  of  being  "occupied  with  taking  care  of  fifty  odd 
men,  just  like  children,  but  the  biggest,  healthiest,  most 
lovable,  and  altogether  most  fascinating  set  of  young  fire- 
eaters  you  ever  saw.  I'm  really  having  the  time  of  my 
life.  ...  I  wrote  about  being  in  the  trenches  with  the 
French.  ...  I  think  they  are  the  most  wonderful  people 
in  the  world.  You  have  to  be  right  with  them  in  the 
French  Army  to  appreciate  what  they  are  like,  are  doing, 
have  done." 

The  18th  Infantry  was  relieved  a  few  days  before  the 
American  capture  of  Cantigny.  Captain  Campbell,  of 
this  regiment,  has  written  in  an  official  report : 

Lieutenant  Pal  ache  was  seriously  wounded  by  a  high  explo- 
sive shell  on  the  night  of  May  14-15,  1918,  during  the  relief  of 



our  company  from  its  sector;  Lieutenant  Palache  was  directing 
the  relief  of  his  platoon  at  the  time,  and  seeing  that  the  relieving 
platoon  was  properly  in  place  before  leaving.  It  was  while  thus 
engaged  that  a  high  explosive  shell  struck  within  ten  feet  of  him, 
killing  three  of  the  relieving  platoon,  and  wounding  himself  and 
two  of  his  men.  He  was  struck  in  the  side  of  the  head  by  a  piece 
of  the  shell,  and  at  first  the  wound  was  not  considered  serious, 
although  it  rendered  him  unconscious.  Everything  possible  was 
done  for  him  on  the  spot.  He  was  carried  by  his  men  and  the 
writer,  who  loved  him  dearly,  to  the  first  aid  station,  and  from 
that  point  he  was  taken  by  ambulance  to  the  hospital.  Lieu- 
tenant Palache  was  loved  and  respected  by  his  men  and  brother 
officers,  and  stood  equally  high  in  the  esteem  of  his  company 
commander.  His  attention  to  duty  was  an  object-lesson  to 
those  about  him,  and  his  bravery  was  proved  again  and  again, 
and  recognized  by  his  colonel,  who  substantiated  his  recom- 
mendation by  his  company  commander  for  the  Croix  de  Guerre. 
His  death  was  keenly  felt  by  the  e;ntire  command,  as  he  was  a 
splendid  type  of  an  American  officer  and  gentleman.  He  was 
glorious  in  his  death,  as  his  last  words  before  becoming  un- 
conscious were,  "Sergeant,  I  want  to  march  out  at  the  head  of 
my  platoon." 

His  wound  was  received  at  Villers  Tournelle,  about  a 
mile  behind  Cantigny,  and  he  died  in  the  hospital  at 
Bonvillers  on  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  he  was 
wounded,  May  15,  1918.  He  was  buried  in  the  village 
churchyard  at  Bonvillers  on  May  16,  1918,  in  the  ceme- 
tery for  the  American  soldiers  who  fell  at  Cantigny. 



Class  of  1914 

William  Noel  Hewitt,  younger  son  of  the  Rev. 
George  Ross  Hewitt  (Harvard,  '83)  and  the  late  Helen 
Louise  (Fairchild)  Hewitt,  was  born  in  West  Springfield, 
Massachusetts,  December  25,  1891.  In  1894  he  moved 
with  his  parents  to  Fitchburg,  in  1899  to  Lowell,  and  in 
1902  to  West  Medwav,  Massachusetts,  where  he  attended 



grammar  school  and  graduated  from  the  Medway  High 
School  in  1910  as  valedictorian  of  his  class.  To  make  a 
more  thorough  preparation  for  entering  college  it  had  been 
planned  that  he  should  spend  a  year  at  Phillips  Andover 
Academy,  which  his  father  had  attended,  but  when  he 
passed  the  entrance  examinations  for  Harvard  with  his 
Medway  High  School  class  the  extra  year  at  Andover  was 
given  up,  and  he  entered  Harvard  in  the  autumn  of  1910. 

As  an  undergraduate  he  specialized  in  music,  and  took 
his  degree  cum  laude  in  1914.  He  was  an  active  member  of 
the  Musical  Club  of  the  University,  to  which  he  was  elected 
in  1911.  In  his  senior  year  he  served  as  its  librarian,  and 
at  the  same  time  was  business  manager  of  the  Harvard 
Musical  Review.  In  February,  1914,  he  was  elected  an 
honorary  member  of  the  Pierian  Sodality  and  became  the 
conductor  of  its  orchestra  in  the  first  of  his  two  years  of 
graduate  study.  He  was  also  a  member  of  the  Kappa 
Gamma  Chi  fraternity,  and  from  the  time  of  his  gradua- 
tion to  the  time  of  his  enlistment  occupied  a  room,  when 
in  Cambridge,  in  the  house  of  the  fraternity  on  Mount 
Auburn  Street. 

In  February,  1916,  he  received  the  Harvard  degree  of 
A.M.,  for  which,  in  addition  to  other  required  work,  he 
composed  a  symphony  that  won  high  praise  from  his 
musical  instructors  and  gave  promise,  as  they  said,  of 
unique  and  original  work  in  musical  composition.  But 
for  the  outbreak  of  the  war  in  August,  1914,  he  would  have 
gone  to  Paris  in  that  year  to  study  under  Widor,  the 
famous  French  organist  and  composer. 

From  the  very  beginning  of  the  war  he  had  taken  a  keen 
and  absorbing  interest  in  its  progress.     His  sympathies 



were  strongly  with  the  Alhes,  and  as  our  relations  with 
Germany  became  more  and  more  strained  he  declared 
it  to  be  his  purpose  to  render  active  service  to  his  country 
if  war  with  that  power  should  be  declared.     With  this 
possibility  in  view  he  spent  the  month  of  July,  1916,  at 
the  Plattsburg  Training  Camp.     In  the  autumn  of  1916 
he  accepted  the  position  of  organist  and  choirmaster  in 
the  Episcopal  church  of  Wakefield,  Massachusetts,  where 
he  remained  until  his  enlistment.    Immediately  after  the 
declaration  of  war  he  went  to  Mineola,  Long  Island,  and, 
having  passed  the  requisite  tests  for  aviation,  enlisted  at 
Boston  on  June  2,  1917,  in  the  Aviation  Service.    He  was 
ordered  at  once  to  the  State  University  at  Columbus, 
Ohio,  for  ground  training,  and  on  August  1  to  New  York, 
whence  he  sailed  overseas  on  August  18  with  the  "honor 
group"  in  which  the  high  quality  of  his  work  at  Columbus 
had  given  him  a  place.    Arriving  in  England  about  Septem- 
ber 1,  he  passed  six  weeks  more  of  study  in  the  principles 
of  aviation  at  Oxford.     Then  for  instruction  in  flying  he 
was  sent  to  France  and  spent  the  next  four  months  at  the 
Aviation  Instruction  School  at  Tours.    After  a  brief  fur- 
lough in  the  spring  of  1918,  he  was  assigned  to  the  Third 
Aviation  Instruction  Centre  at  Issoudun,  France,  where 
he  received  his  commission  as  first  lieutenant,  April  1, 
1918.     Just  as  his  training  was  nearing  completion,  and 
he  was  ready  and  eager  to  be  ordered  to  the  front,  he  fell 
to  his  death  in  an  airplane  accident.  May  18,  1918. 

The  last  sentence  in  his  last  letter,  written  the  day  be- 
fore his  death,  was  this:  "I  am,  as  usual,  healthily  im- 
patient." His  impatience  was  not  that  of  one  who  loved 
war,  for  he  hated  it  and  went  into  it  only  from  a  high 



sense  of  duty,  and  he  was  only  eager  to  be  done  with 
training  and  sent  to  the  front. 

Of  the  manner  of  his  death,  and  of  the  place  he  had  made 
for  himself,  his  commanding  officer.  Major  Carl  Spatz, 
wrote  at  once  to  Hewitt's  father: 

Lieutenant  Hewitt  was  doing  very  good  work  on  advanced 
types  of  machines,  and  was  developing  into  an  excellent  pilot. 
On  the  morning  of  the  18th  of  May,  1918,  he  was  ordered  to 
make  a  flight  as  a  part  of  his  training,  and  was  doing  well,  when 
in  some  unaccountable  manner  his  plane  got  into  a  nose  dive, 
and,  before  he  could  regain  control,  crashed  to  the  earth.  The 
accident  occurred  at  about  10.30  in  the  morning,  and  was  im- 
mediately reported,  with  the  result  that  medical  and  mechanical 
aid  were  rushed  to  the  scene.  Your  son  was  severely  and  fatally 
injured  and  was  unconscious  when  the  ambulance  reached  him. 
He  was  taken  to  the  hospital  at  once,  and  despite  the  fact  that 
he  received  the  best  of  medical  attention  and  comfort,  he  died 
at  3.55  P.M.  the  same  day.  His  death  was  practically  without 
pain,  for  he  did  not  regain  consciousness  after  the  smash.  At 
three  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  Lieutenant  Hewitt  was  buried, 
with  full  military  honors,  in  the  United  States  x\rmy  Cemetery 
at  this  Centre.  .  .  . 

He  was  a  young  man  of  exceptional  qualifications,  and  above 
all  was  a  good  officer  and  a  gentleman.  He  was  greatly  ad- 
mired and  loved  by  his  brother  officers,  and  his  death  came  as 
a  shock  to  all  of  us.  You  have  every  reason  to  be  proud  of  your 
son  and  of  his  memory,  for  he  was  one  of  those  heroes  who  cheer- 
fully gave  his  all  in  his  nation's  service. 

In  October,  1920,  the  body  of  Lieutenant  Hewitt  was 
returned  to  the  United  States,  and  on  Sunday,  November 
7,  a  funeral  service  was  held  at  the  Congregational  Church 
in  West  Medway,  of  which  he  had  been  not  only  a  mem- 
ber but,  for  several  years,  organist.    At  the  burial  at  West 



Medway  full  military  honors  were  paid  to  Hewitt's  mem- 
ory by  the  local  post  of  the  American  Legion. 

His  unusual  gifts  as  a  musician,  which  he  turned  to 
excellent  account  even  on  the  crossing  to  England,  gave 
great  pleasure  to  his  hearers.  He  was  withal  a  modest, 
unassuming  young  man,  full  of  promise  in  all  the  personal 
and  artistic  relations  of  the  life  on  which  he  had  entered. 



Class  of  1916 

J.  HROUGH  the  text  and  the  many  pictures  in  the  small 
privately  printed  volume  which  commemorates  William 
Dennison  Lyon,  a  short  and  happy  life  that  gave  much 
happiness  to  others  is  tellingly  portrayed.  From  that 
volume  the  substance  of  the  present  memoir  is  directly 



His  father  was  the  Rev.  William  Henry  Lyon,  a  graduate 
of  Brown  University  in  1868,  and  of  the  Harvard  Divinity 
School  in  1873,  for  nearly  twenty  years  before  his  death 
in  1915  minister  of  the  First  Parish  (Unitarian)  Church 
in  Brookline,  Massachusetts.  His  mother,  Louise  (Denni- 
son)  Lyon,  is  the  youngest  child  of  the  late  Elij)halet 
Whorf  Dennison,  founder  of  the  Dennison  Manufacturing 
Company.  The  only  son  of  these  parents,  William  Denni- 
son Lyon,  was  born  in  Boston,  February  17,  1894. 

A  love  of  the  sea,  first  apparent  in  early  childhood,  led 
him  through  his  young  manhood  to  become  an  enthusiastic 
sailor  of  smaller  and  larger  boats  and  afterwards  to  choose 
the  Navy  as  the  service  in  which  he  could  most  effectually 
do  his  part  in  the  war.  On  the  sea  he  found  response  to 
a  poetic  element  in  his  own  nature,  an  element  expressing 
itself  besides  through  the  creation  in  his  earliest  years  of 
imaginary  playmates.  When  he  grew  a  little  older  his 
imagination  revealed  itself  in  a  form  for  which  there  are 
fewer  precedents.  Among  the  most  private  possessions  of 
his  boyhood  was  a  manuscript  "Book  of  Clubs."  It  ap- 
peared to  be  a  list  of  many  clubs,  bearing  such  titles  as 
"The  Exactness  Club,"  each  with  many  members.  On 
closer  scrutiny  the  names  of  the  members  were  found  to 
be  made  up  of  the  letters  of  his  own  name,  so  rearranged 
as,  in  one  instance,  to  produce  nineteen  names  in  all.  For 
this  multiple  personality  he  devised,  and  wrote,  in  the 
painstaking  script  of  a  boy,  sets  of  rules  for  conduct.  One 
of  these  codes  read  thus:  — "No  member  of  this  club 
must  do  the  following  things:  1.  No  member  must  think 
of  himself  before  he  does  any  other  person.  2.  No  mem- 
ber of  this  club  must  lose  his. temper. .  3.  No  member  shall 



in  any  way  attempt  to  hurt  another  person's  feelings. 
4.  No  member  shall  talk  loud  or  be  boisterous  in  public 
places  or  elsewhere.  5.  No  member  shall  do  another  per- 
son any  bodily  harm  or  injury.  6.  No  member  shall  waste 
monej'  or  anything  else  belonging  to  himself  or  any  other 
person.  7.  When  you  strike,  strike  hard,  but  do  not  strike 
more  often  than  is  necessary.  Be  very  good-natured, 
and  never  strike  or  harm  a  lady."  W^hen  teaching  and 
example  can  so  affect  a  boy's  voluntary,  hidden  plans  for 
the  ordering  of  his  daily  life,  his  education  may  be  regarded 
as  well  begun. 

Outwardly  it  proceeded  at  Volkmann's  School  in  Boston, 
and  at  Harvard  College,  which  he  entered  in  the  autumn 
of  1911  with  the  Class  of  1915.  He  was  a  member  of  this 
class  for  two  years,  after  which  he  was  enrolled  with  the 
Class  of  1916.  He  joined  the  Institute  of  1770,  the 
D.  K.  E.,  and  Hasty  Pudding  Clubs,  and  was  one  of  those 
for  whom  the  friendships  of  college  life  constituted  an 
element  of  highest  value.  In  his  senior  year  the  death  of 
his  father,  with  whom  he  stood  in  a  relation  of  extraordi- 
nary sympathy,  was  followed  by  the  necessity  of  his  leav- 
ing college  on  account  of  the  general  impairment  of  his 
own  health  and  strength.  This  was  found  due  to  a  long- 
standing case  of  appendicitis,  demanding  an  operation 
from  which  he  did  not  recover  in  time  to  complete  his  col- 
lege studies.  His  devotion  to  his  mother  and  younger 
sisters  had  now  become  more  than  ever  the  object  of  his 
chief  concern,  and  he  felt  that  the  time  to  establish  him- 
self in  the  world  had  arrived. 

Wishing  to  stand  on  his  own  feet  in  this  regard,  he  did 
not  seek  employment,  which  he  might  readily  have  found, 



in  the  business  established  by  his  grandfather,  but  went 
to  Worcester,  without  credentials  of  any  kind  to  secure  a 
beginner's  job  in  one  of  the  manufacturing  plants  of  that 
city.  After  several  rejections  and  an  acceptance  which  led 
to  three  weeks  of  work  in  a  screw  factory,  where  his  eyes 
were  taxed  beyond  their  power  of  endurance,  he  was  em- 
ployed in  a  wire  mill,  first  as  a  fellow  laborer  with  a  gang 
of  Turks,  then  in  charge  of  them.  The  young  lover  of 
nature,  of  music,  of  all  beautiful  things,  and  chiefly  of  his 
home,  found  no  time  or  occasion  for  self-pity  in  these  con- 
ditions, but  worked  hard,  with  unaffected  enjoyment  of 
his  daily  contacts  and  of  that  better  understanding  of  the 
industrial  worker  which  he  was  steadily  acquiring. 

To  what  ends  all  this  experience  would  have  led,  it  is 
idle  to  conjecture,  for  it  had  lasted  only  a  few  months 
when  April,  1917,  brought  its  challenge  to  Lyon,  as  to  all 
his  contemporaries.  He  wrote  a  friend  asking  advice,  and 
confessing,  "Somehow  I  have  never  quite  taken  in  the 
importance  of  the  situation  until  now.  ...  I  need  a  good 
hard  shaking  to  wake  me  up,  and  the  trouble  is  I  realize 
I  need  it  but  cannot  seem  to  get  it  or  give  it  to  myself." 
His  duty  to  his  mother,  whose  health  was  frail,  entered 
gravely  into  his  consideration.  But  it  was  not  long  before 
his  course  showed  itself  clear  before  him,  and  on  May  1, 
1917,  having  left  the  wire  mill  with  the  assurance  of  a 
place  awaiting  his  return,  he  enlisted  at  Newport,  Rhode 
Island,  as  boatswain's  mate,  first  class,  U.  S.  Naval 
Reserve  Force. 

Detailed  at  Newport  first  to  shore  duty  and  then  to  serv- 
ice on  a  little  shore  patrol  boat,  the  Lady  Betty,  he  not  only 
made  himself  as  useful  as  one  with  his  amateur  nautical 



training  could,  but  applied  himself  hard  to  preparing  him- 
self for  the  examinations  leading  to  an  ensign's  commis- 
sion. There  were  times  of  discouragement,  when  his 
thoughts  turned  to  aviation  as  a  more  active  branch  of 
service  and  at  one  of  these  times  he  wrote  a  friend: 
"  Things  look  dead  ahead  here,  and  I  and  my  friends  would, 
I  am  sure,  rather  have  me  really  dead  doing  a  man's  job 
than  dead  but  alive."  Nevertheless  he  stuck  to  his  naval 
studies,  and  in  September  took  his  examinations  with 
success.  Early  in  October  he  visited  home,  placed  his 
commission  as  provisional  ensign  in  his  mother's  hands, 
and  apropos  of  his  new  uniform,  wrote  to  one  of  his  sisters 
at  Vassar :  "  Swelling  with  pride,  the  thrill  of  my  life  came 
while  talking  with  Mrs.  F.  at  the  theatre,  when  two  ladies 
rushed  up  to  me  with  tickets  and  implored  me  several 
times  to  show  them  their  seats." 

For  a  few  weeks  before  the  end  of  October,  Lyon  was 
put  in  command  of  a  small  patrol  boat,  the  Doris  B.  Ill, 
at  Newport,  and  before  the  end  of  the  month  received 
orders  to  proceed  to  the  battleship  Connecticut,  at  Norfolk, 
Virginia.  From  November  4  to  March  7,  1918,  he  served 
on  this  vessel  as  a  junior  division  officer,  learning  much, 
enjoying  much.  His  letters  home  are  filled  with  glimpses 
of  the  life  —  a  Christmas  carol  trip  about  the  harbor  by 
a  ship's  boat  met  at  most  of  the  other  ships  "either  with 
too  much  or  not  enough  enthusiasm,"  a  New  Year's 
celebration,  inspection  on  night  watches,  drill,  and  lec- 
tures. In  March  he  received  orders  to  report  for  duty  as 
Executive  Officer  of  the  U.  S.  S.  C.  (Submarine  Chaser) 
320,  then  about  to  go  into  commission  at  Newport. 
Much  of  the  final  work  was  still  to  be  done,  and  into  this 



Lyon  threw  himself  with  enthusiasm,  all  the  greater  for 
the  cordial  relations  soon  established  between  the  com- 
manding officer  and  himself.  His  relations  with  the  men 
soon  became  equally  satisfactory,  and  this  without  their 
knowledge  that  it  was  he  who  provided  the  boat  with  a 
victrola  for  their  entertainment  after  working  hours. 

By  the  middle  of  May  the  boat  was  ready  to  proceed 
from  Newport  to  New  London  for  her  final  equipment  and 
the  completion  of  her  crew.  The  surroundings  were  more 
congenial  than  those  at  Newport,  orders  for  active  duty 
were  expected  in  the  near  future  —  when,  on  May  21, 
came  the  end.  The  circumstances  of  Lyon's  death  are 
thus  described  in  his  memorial  biography: 

"His  labors  for  this  day  were  nearly  over,  the  lectures 
to  the  crew,  together  with  his  other  duties  as  executive 
officer.  Finally,  near  the  close,  sitting  quietly  in  the  midst 
of  his  work  in  the  magazine  of  the  little  sub-chaser,  a  gun 
which  he  was  cleaning  exploded,  the  bullet  entering  his 
forehead,  his  death  being  instantaneous." 

His  commanding  officer,  a  friend  of  only  two  months, 
wrote  of  Lyon  a  few  days  later:  "I  do  not  expect  ever  to 
meet  again  such  a  kind,  gentle,  manly  nature  as  his.  .  .  • 
I  often  looked  upon  him  with  admiration  and  wished  that 
I  were  like  him." 

A  friend  of  longer  standing,  one  of  Lyon's  own  contem- 
poraries, wrote  out  of  more  intimate  knowledge: 

You  will  never  know  what  Denny  was  to  me,  both  as  my 
nearest  friend  and  the  most  inspiring  and  live  memory.  "Over 
there"  there  were  many  things  not  easy  to  face,  or  to  carry 
through,  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  was  trying  to  live  up 
to  Denny  and  his  ideals.    You  know,  I  believe  Denny  is  every 



bit  as  alive  now  as  he  ever  was.  He  was  my  best  friend,  and  to 
lose  him  is  a  loss  that  can  never  be  filled,  but  he  will  be  with  me 
all  the  time,  and  his  gentleness  and  unselfishness  are  going  to 
be  a  wonderful  source  of  comfort. 

In  1920  the  L^niversity  conferred  upon  him  the  war 
degree  of  A.B.  as  of  the  Class  of  1916. 



Class  of  1916 

J.  HE  roads  that  lead  to  Harvard  are  manv  and  various. 
Paul  Kurtz's  father,  who  is  associated  with  the  Phila- 
delphia banking  house  of  E.  W.  Clark  and  Company, 
wrote  soon  after  his  son's  death  in  France  to  Mr.  Wil- 
liam C.  Lane,  Librarian  of  Harvard  College,  as  follows: 
"It  mav  interest  vou  to  know  that  awav  back  in  1900 
and  1901,  I  met  a  number  of  Harvard  men  at  Marion 
and  Mattapoisett,  Massachusetts,  and  my  contact  with 
them  determined  me  to  send  my  son,  William  Fulton 
Kurtz  [Class  of  1908],  to  Harv-ard.  Later  Paul  followed 
his  brother,  and  I  have  always  felt  that  the  ideals  of  fair 
Harvard  had  a  great  influence  on  the  point  of  view  of 
both  of  my  boys." 



A  son  of  this  father,  WilHam  Bunn  Kurtz  and  his  wife, 
Madge  (Fulton)  Kurtz,  Paul  Borda  Kurtz,  was  born  in 
Germantown,  Pennsylvania,  September  20,  1893.  As  a 
boy  he  attended  the  Friends'  School  in  Germantown  and 
the  DeLaneey  School  in  Philadelphia,  from  which,  in 
1912,  he  entered  Harvard.  While  in  college  he  played  on 
his  freshman  baseball  team,  and  later  on  the  second  Uni- 
versity nine.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Pennsylvania, 
Southern,  D.  K.  E.,  Institute  of  1770,  Hasty  Pudding, 
and  Owl  Clubs. 

At  the  end  of  his  junior  year  —  that  year  of  1914-15  in 
the  course  of  which  so  many  undergraduates  began  strain- 
ing at  the  leash  —  Kurtz  sailed  for  France  to  join  the 
American  Ambulance  Hospital  Field  Service.  As  an  am- 
bulance driver  in  the  first  section  of  this  service  he  worked, 
first  in  Paris,  then  in  Flanders,  from  July  until  December, 
when  he  returned  to  America,  reaching  home  on  Christ- 
mas Eve.  From  January  to  June  of  1916,  he  went  back 
to  his  studies  at  Cambridge,  and  took  his  degree  with  his 
class.  In  July  he  rejoined  the  first  section  of  the  American 
Ambulance  in  France.  From  this  time  until  the  following 
April  the  section  was  stationed  chiefly  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Verdun,  where  it  rendered  much  perilous  and 
valuable  service.  In  November,  1916,  it  was  cited  by 
General  Mangin  for  the  "most  brilliant  courage  and  most 
complete  devotion"  of  the  officers  and  drivers. 

Two  letters  written  by  Kurtz  to  his  mother  just  before 
and  just  after  the  United  States  entered  the  war  illustrate 
well  the  state  of  mind  in  which  many  members  of  the 
Ambulance  Service  found  themselves  at  this  time,  and 
clearly  reveal  the  individual  spirit  of  Paul  Kurtz : 



April  S,  1917. 

To-day's  papers  don't  say  anything  of  what  Wilson  and 
Congress  have  done  or  are  going  to  do,  but  we  are  all  hoping 
that  tomorrow,  or  in  a  few  days,  war  will  be  declared.  It  seems 
fairly  certain  that  in  this  event  we  will  send  an  Expedition 
Force  of  perhaps  twenty  thousand  regulars  as  a  starter,  and 
that  later  more  troops  will  be  sent,  provided  the  war  lasts  long 
enough  to  give  us  time  to  train  and  equip  them.  In  this  event 
I  would  feel  more  or  less  of  an  "embusque''  —  a  rather  un- 
pleasant French  word,  meaning  a  man  who  takes  a  soft  and 
comfortable,  safe  job  when  he  is  capable  of  doing  more  —  if  I 
were  to  stay  in  the  Ambulance.  We  have  been  talking  over 
what  we  could  do  in  case  of  war,  and  there  is  hardly  a  man  in 
this  section  — ■  and  it  is  probably  the  same  in  other  sections  — 
who  does  not  intend  to  leave  and  go  into  some  more  active 
service,  —  infantry,  artillery,  or  aviation.  Those  men  who  are 
connected  with  some  military  organization  at  home  will  go 
back  if  possible  to  rejoin  them,  while  others,  whose  enlistment 
here  expires  soon,  are  going  back  to  enlist  in  one  thing  or  another. 
Having  seen  what  I  have  of  the  infantry,  I  have  no  desire  to 
enlist  in  that,  while  I  am  afraid  that  I  could  not  meet  the  ar- 
tillery requirements.  Aviation,  then,  seems  about  the  only 
thing  left,  and  if  you  feel  as  I  do,  —  that  I  ought  to  offer  my 
services  in  case  of  war,  —  I  would  prefer  to  enlist  in  the  French 
Air  Service,  to  which  the  American  Escadrille  is  attached. 

No  doubt  this  will  seem  rather  sudden  and  alarming  to  you 
at  first,  but  just  think  for  a  minute  what  it  means.  I  suppose 
you  think  of  an  aeroplane  as  a  thing  that  means  certain  death 
sooner  or  later.  If  you  had  seen  as  much  flying  as  I  have  you 
would  realize  that  it  has  become  as  safe  as  driving  a  Ford  am- 
bulance. The  number  of  men  who  have  been  in  it  since  the 
beginning  and  are  still  alive,  and  the  fact  that  the  mortality 
percentage  is  lower  in  this  service  than  in  any  other  branch, 
attest  this  fact.  The  careful  flyer  has  all  the  chances  in  his  favor. 
To  be  accepted  I  would  have  to  be  passed  by  Dr.  Gros  of  the 



Ambulance,  and  as  I  am  in  good  health  and  my  eyesight  — 
which  is  the  main  requirement  —  all  right,  I  don't  think  there 
would  be  any  trouble  in  this  respect.  Then,  being  passed,  I 
would  be  sent  to  a  training  school  to  go  through  a  course  lasting 
from  four  to  six  months,  depending  on  my  aptitude  and  the 
kind  of  weather.  This  part  of  the  work  is  the  least  attractive, 
according  to  the  men  to  whom  I  have  spoken,  and  of  course 
there  is  always  the  chance  that  the  war  will  be  over  before  I 
could  get  my  license. 

Once  in  the  air,  however,  there  is  not  much  danger.  All  the 
Americans  in  the  French  service,  —  and  there  are  over  one 
hundred  either  flying  or  in  training,  —  are  put  on  fast,  single- 
seated,  fighting  planes,  the  safest  machine  yet  developed  and 
the  best  in  a  fight.  Machines  are  practically  never  shot  down 
from  the  ground  and  the  only  danger  is  in  being  winged  by  a 

I  don't  want  to  go  into  this  because  I  am  tired  of  the  Ambu- 
lance, or  for  the  sport  of  the  thing,  but  simply  because  I  feel 
that  we  owe  France  a  debt  that  mere  "unlimited  credit"  can 
never  repay.  Just  think  what  she  has  suffered  in  the  past  two 
years  and  a  half,  while  we  have  been  sitting  by  in  safety.  I 
know  we  have  been  generous  enough  in  money  and  supplies, 
but  what  are  they  when  France  has  lost  and  is  losing  the  best  of 
her  men?  I  tell  you,  I  did  a  little  thinking  during  my  two  weeks 
in  that  hospital  and  I  resolved  that  if  the  chance  came  I  would 
show  them  that  there  were  some  Americans  who  were  n't  afraid 
to  give  their  lives  if  necessary,  as  long  as  they  knew  that  they 
were  doing  the  right  thing,  and  to  me  the  only  right  thing  is  to 
get  into  the  fight  and  do  the  duty  that  we  have  been  shirking 
so  long.  I  have  seen  enough  death  and  suffering  here  not  to  be 
afraid  of  them,  and  if  I  could  only  get  into  active  service  (just 
once)  I  would  n't  care  what  happened  to  me.  I  know  that  the 
Ambulance  is  doing  good  work  and  that  we  are  all  "brave 
young  men."  I  have  seen  so  much  bunk  written  about  us  that 
I  am  sick  of  reading  it.    If  I  were  at  home  you  would  n't  want 



me  to  stay  at  home  and  let  somebody  else  go  out  and  do  the 

fighting  for  me,  I  am  sure.     Well,  that  is  the  position  I  feel 

myself  in  here  and  being  able  to  do  so  much  more  I  would  feel 

myself  an  " embusque"  were  I  to  stay  where  I  am. 

Of  course  I  could,  as  some  others  have  done,  have  gone  into 

this  without  saying  anything  to  you  about  it,  but  I  think  you 

know  me  well  enough  to  know  that  if  you  say  "No,"  this  will 

be  enough  for  me.    In  case  you  don't  see  things  from  my  point 

of  view,  I  will  stay  with  the  Ambulance  until  my  enlistment 

expires  the  29th  of  July,  and  then  come  home  to  try  and  do 

something  useful  there.     If  you  want  to  cable  for  any  reason, 

the  cable  address  of  the  Field  Service  is  "Amerifield-Paris." 

In  the  meanwhile  don't  worry  about  me,  as  I  won't  do  anything 

without  hearing  from  you. 

April  9, 1917. 

Our  division  is  still  "cti  repos.''  .  .  .  America's  declaration  of 
war  has  n't  changed  things  much  for  us,  though  all  the  French- 
men with  whom  I  have  talked  seem  very  much  pleased. 

The  day  after  war  was  declared  I  had  a  very  pleasant  experi- 
ence. As  it  was  warm  and  clear,  four  of  us  decided  to  walk  over 
to  Verdun,  which  is  fifteen  kilometres  away,  to  see  the  city  and 
the  changes  that  had  taken  place  since  we  were  last  there  in 
September.  After  walking  around  the  town  we  decided  to  go 
through  the  citadel,  if  possible,  and  went  to  the  office  of  the 
Commandant,  who,  after  looking  at  our  papers  and  finding  out 
who  we  were,  very  kindly  detailed  a  man  to  act  as  our  guide. 
The  first  thing  he  suggested  was  that  we  have  a  drink  in  the 
Officers'  Mess,  a  long,  barrel-shaped  tunnel  in  the  heart  of  the 
citadel  some  hundred  feet  underground,  perfectly  secure  from 
shells  and  detailed  for  the  use  of  the  officers  and  orderlies.  At 
the  next  table  were  about  twenty  officers  of  a  regiment  who 
had  come  down  from  the  trenches  the  day  before  and  were 
celebrating  the  event.  We  had  no  sooner  sat  down  than  one  of 
them  jumped  up  and  shouted  "  Vive  les  Etats-Unis."  Naturally 
we  stood  up,  much  to  their  surprise,  but  when  they  saw  who  we 



were  nothing  would  do  but  that  we  should  join  them  and  all 
sorts  of  toasts  were  drunk  to  the  United  States,  France,  and  the 
Allies.  It  was  a  most  cordial  reception  and  coming  as  it  did 
from  men  who  had  just  been  in  the  trenches  and  managed  to 
come  out  alive,  meant  much  more  than  something  that  had 
been  pre-arranged. 

Yesterday,  being  Easter,  was  a  holiday  for  the  soldiers  and 
in  the  afternoon  we  played  a  soccer  game  w  ith  a  team  of  men 
and  officers  of  the  aviation  squadron  in  w^iose  barracks  we  are 
living,  and  although  they  had  some  professionals  we  managed  to 
hold  them  down  fairly  w^ell  and  were  only  beaten  2-1.  If  the 
weather  is  propitious  we  are  going  to  play  them  again  tomorrow, 
though  just  now  I  am  so  stiff  that  I  can  scarcely  walk  and  most 
of  the  rest  of  the  team  are  in  the  same  condition. 

Yorke  Stevenson  ^  came  back  yesterday  entirely  healed  up 
from  his  accident.  From  his  account  of  things  at  home  people 
must  be  pretty  busy  getting  ready,  and  it  certainly  is  time  they 
did  something.  If  the  war  keeps  up  a  year  longer,  they  will 
realize  that  there  is  really  a  war  going  on  over  here.  The  Eng- 
lish are  getting  started  at  last,  and  the  outlook  for  the  Allies 
seems  brighter  all  the  time.  The  Huns  are  up  to  their  old  tricks 
again,  and  there  is  a  notice  in  the  village  warning  everyone 
against  poisoned  candy,  which  they  have  been  dropping  from 
aeroplanes.  Two  nights  ago  I  was  standing  outside  when  a 
Boche  plane  flew  overhead  and  then  went  off  to  the  next  village 
where  it  fired  with  a  mitrailleuse  into  the  houses,  luckily  doing 
no  damage.  Ten  minutes  later  a  French  plane  was  off  and  as 
a  reprisal  flew  over  towns  in  the  German  lines  and  fired  into 
houses  where  there  were  lights  in  the  windows.  The  Boches 
have  n't  been  over  since. 

To  the  request  for  his  parent's  consent  to  his  entering 
the  aviation  service,  Kurtz's  father  cabled:    "Permission 

1  William  Yorke  Stevenson,  of  Philadelphia,  author  of  At  the  Front 
in  a  Flivver,  and  From  Poilu  to  Yank,  each  containing  many  references 
to  Paul  Kurtz. 



to  aviate  lovingly  given."  On  this  he  would  have  acted  at 
once  but  that  the  head  of  the  American  Field  Service 
wished  him  to  retain  his  connection  with  it,  as  commander 
of  a  new  section.  Number  18,  until  the  following  August. 
Accepting  this  responsibility,  Kurtz  remained  at  his  peril- 
ous post,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Verdun,  until  the  ap- 
pointed time.  He  then  resigned,  and  succeeded  in  joining 
the  United  States  Air  Service.  A  friend  who  saw  him 
the  following  winter  in  his  aviator's  uniform,  noticing 
that  he  was  not  wearing  the  ribbon  of  the  Croix  de  Guerre 
with  star,  which  he  had  won  as  an  ambulancier,  exclaimed, 
"Why,  Paul.?"  and  received  the  reply:  "Oh,  because  I 
did  n't  win  it  in  aviation,  and  with  my  uniform  it  looks 
as  though  I  did."  The  citation  accompanying  this  award 
of  the  Croix  de  Guerre  read  as  follows : 

Volontavre  Americain,  a  ete  d'un  devouement  admirable  pen- 
dant Vhiver  1916—17  tant  en  Argonne  que  dans  le  secteur  de  la 
cote  SOJf..  A  notamment  fait  preuve  des  plus  belles  qualites  d' en- 
durance, de  courage,  de  mepris  du  danger,  en  assurant,  le  jour  et 
la  nuit  du  25  au  28  Janvier  1917,  V evacuation  des  blesses  par  un 
temps  effroyable  sur  une  route  particidiereinent  bombardee. 

His  training  as  an  aviator,  rewarded  first  by  a  French 
pilot's  license,  and  then,  November  20,  1917,  by  a  com- 
mission as  first  lieutenant,  American  Aviation,  Signal 
Corps,  was  carried  on  at  flying  schools  at  Pau,  Tours, 
and  Cazaux,  at  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  School  at  Hj^the, 
near  Folkstone,  England,  and  an  aerial  gunnery  school 
at  Turnberry  in  Scotland.  As  a  result  of  all  this  prepara- 
tion he  expected  to  become  Head  Instructor  of  Pilots  in 
a  new  American  Aerial  Gunnery  School  in  process  of  con- 
struction on  the  French  coast.     On  April  25  he  wrote 



home  that  since  this  school  would  not  be  finished  for  some 
time,  he  hoped  to  become  attached  at  once  to  a  flying 
squadron  and  sent  to  the  front.  This  was  indeed  his 
heart's  desire,  and  it  was  accomplished  when,  for  the  sake 
of  gaining  an  actual  war  experience  before  himself  be- 
coming an  instructor,  he  was  ordered  to  report  to  the 
94th  Aero  Squadron,  First  Pursuit  Group,  a  fighting  unit 
with  which  the  names  of  Quentin  Roosevelt,  Hamilton 
Coolidge,  Raoul  Lufbery,  James  Norman  Hall,  and 
"Eddie"  Rickenbacker  are  memorably  associated. 

This  unit,  when  Kurtz  joined  it  in  May,  1918,  had  been 
patrolling  the  front  between  St.  Mihiel  and  Pont-a-Mous- 
son  for  about  a  month.  For  a  few  days,  the  flight  com- 
mander, Captain  Rickenbacker,  gave  him  the  practice 
of  short  flights  and  frequent  landings  in  a  "Baby  Nieu- 
port"  machine,  with  which  he  had  not  hitherto  been 
familiar.  By  May  22  Kurtz  felt  himself  ready  for  what 
Captain  Rickenbacker,  in  his  book,  "Fighting  the  Flying 
Circus,"  calls  "that  greatest  adventure  of  the  young 
pilot:  that  first  trip  over  the  enemy's  lines." 

In  this  book  Kurtz's  first  and  last  flight  as  a  fighting 
aviator  is  described.  Captain  Rickenbacker  and  Lieu- 
tenant Chambers  agreed  that  Kurtz  should  accompany 
them  on  what  was  called  a  voluntary  patrol.  Kurtz  was 
not  to  join  in  a  fight  unless  the  advantage  was  on  the 
side  of  the  Americans.  They  started  early  in  the  morning 
and  encountered  three  German  planes.  Rickenbacker, 
shortly  after  nine  o'clock,  defeated  one  of  them,  which  fell, 
near  Thiaucourt,  within  the  enemy's  lines.  The  other  two 
took  to  flight,  pursued  by  Chambers  and  Kurtz.  On  his 
wav  back  to  the  American  base  Rickenbacker  had  a  nar- 



row  escape  from  firing  upon  Chambers,  whom  he  mistook 
for  a  German.  For  a  time  he  lost  sight  of  Kurtz  whom  at 
last  he  saw  circling  over  a  field  near  their  aerodrome,  pre- 
paratory to  landing.  Suddenly  his  machine  burst  into 
flames,  for  no  apparent  reason,  and  crashed  to  the  earth. 
Kurtz  was  instantly  killed. 

Rickenbacker  was  told  soon  afterwards  by  an  officer 
who  had  joined  the  squadron  with  Kurtz  that  in  flying 
at  high  altitudes  he  was  sometimes  subject  to  fainting 
spells.  Whether  he  was  seized  in  this  way,  or  fell  a  victim 
to  an  unexplainable  accident,  there  is  no  positive  means 
of  knowing.  His  grave  in  American  Cemetery,  No.  108, 
near  Toul,  was  next  to  that  of  Major  Lufbery,  who  had 
fallen  but  a  few  days  before.  "I  had  got  my  Boche," 
wTote  Rickenbacker,  after  a  brief  description  of  Kurtz's 
funeral,  with  the  incongruous  whine  of  shells  overhead; 
"but  I  had  lost  my  friend,  and  he  had  perished  in  the 
manner  most  dreaded  of  all  aviators,  for  he  had  gone 
down  in  flames." 

Memorial  services  in  Paul  Kurtz's  honor  were  held  on 
July  7,  1918,  in  Calvary  Church,  Germantown,  in  which 
he  had  been  confirmed,  and  on  the  Sunday  before  his 
second  sailing  for  France,  had  received  the  Holy  Com- 



Class  of  1911 

rCiCHARD  Mortimer,  Jr.,  a  son  of  the  late  Richard 
Mortimer  of  New  York  City,  and  Eleanor  Jay  (Chapman) 
Mortimer,  a  sister  of  John  Jay  Chapman,  of  the  Harvard 
Class  of  1884,  was  born  in  Bavaria,  near  Munich,  July  28, 
1888.  His  preparation  for  Harvard  was  made  at  St. 
Mark's  School,  Southborough,  Massachusetts.  There  he 
excelled  in  football,  boxing,  and  track;  and  revealed  an 
all-round  capacity  clearly  indicated  by  the  words,  in  the 
memorial  volume  "St.  Mark's  School  in  the  War  against 
Germany":  "To  a  quick  perception,  ready  intellect  and 
quiet,  keen  wit,  he  brought  the  steady  application  and 
industry  which  assured  him  success  in  his  undertakings." 
At  Harvard,  where  he  completed  his  college  work  in 



three  years,  he  belonged  to  the  Institute  of  1770,  D.K.E., 
Kalumet,  and  Hasty  Pudding  Clubs.  A  classmate  and 
devoted  friend  at  school  and  college,  who  watched  him 
at  St.  Mark's,  lightheartedly  winning  at  games,  saw  that 
at  college  "he  disliked  the  hurry,  the  crowds  of  the  outer 
world,"  and  also  that  he  read,  learned  really  to  ride  a  horse, 
and  made  a  host  of  friends.  From  the  college  he  went  in  the 
autumn  of  1910  to  the  Law  School,  began  to  collect  books, 
went  on  with  his  riding,  which  made  him  and  the  horses  he 
rode  well  known  at  such  meetings  as  those  of  the  United 
Hunts,  the  Country  Club  at  Brookline,  and  the  annual 
steeplechases  at  Myopia.  On  graduating  from  the  Har- 
vard Law  School  in  1913,  he  entered  the  Boston  law  office 
of  Warner,  Stackpole,  and  Bradlee,  and  the  observant 
friend  already  quoted  "noticed  that  the  older  men  were 
glad  to  stop  and  talk  with  him."  One  of  their  number, 
John  T.  Wheelwright  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1878,  wrote, 
after  Mortimer's  death,  of  this  young  New  Yorker  who 
made  his  home  and  sought  his  career  in  Boston: 

To  those  of  us  of  an  older  generation  who  had  the  privilege 
of  association  with  him,  he  seemed  the  flower  of  American 
knighthood.  I  use  this  phrase  advisedly,  for  there  was  in  his 
fine  courtesy  and  fearless  courage  that  which  justifies  its  use. 

He  had  a  well-trained  mind  and  was  already  making  a  name 
for  himself  at  the  bar  when  the  rising  storm  clouds  in  1916  led 
him  to  be  one  of  the  first  to  go  to  an  aviation  camp,  not  a 
Government  one,  and  notwithstanding  his  defective  eyesight 
and  delicate  constitution  he  persevered  in  this  perilous  branch 
of  the  service,  which  was  one  exactly  suited  to  his  dauntless 


In  the  pleasant  days  of  old  he  shone  in  horseback  riding  and 
steeplechasing.    One  of  the  last  pictures  of  him  in  the  memory 



of  his  friends  was  his  driving  a  scratch  four-in-hand,  with  a  gay 
party,  to  the  race  in  the  fall  of  1916  at  Topsfield  and  jumping 
off  the  coach  and  taking  off  his  greatcoat,  appearing  in  his  rac- 
ing colors  and  taking  the  jumps  in  the  steeplechase  with  skill 
and  success. 

Wherever  he  went  he  brought  the  spirit  of  delight.  But  be- 
yond all  this  was  his  fine  wit  and  his  serious  purpose  to  serve 
his  profession  and  his  country. 

Before  Mortimer  could  establish  himself  firmly  in  his 
profession,  Europe  was  plunged  in  war,  and  not  much 
later  the  participation  of  the  United  States  became  an 
obvious  possibility.  In  the  winter  before  it  became  a  fact, 
Mortimer,  like  the  sportsman  he  was,  began  to  prepare 
himself,  by  an  elementary  course  in  the  Curtis  School,  at 
Newport  News,  Virginia,  for  the  work  of  an  aviator.  When 
his  country  joined  the  belligerents,  he  offered  himself  for 
the  aviation  service,  but  was  met  at  first  with  refusal  on 
the  score  of  defective  eyesight.  A  later  application  was 
successful,  and  on  May  31,  1917,  he  was  accepted  as  a  pri- 
vate, first  class,  in  the  Aviation  Section  of  the  Signal 
Corps,  and  began  his  training  at  the  Massachusetts  In- 
stitute of  Technology  Ground  School.  From  this  he  gradu- 
ated, July  28,  and  in  August  sailed  overseas  to  receive  the 
more  advanced  instruction  in  flying  at  English  training 

For  this  purpose  Mortimer  was  stationed  successively 
at  Oxford,  where  he  lived  at  Queen's  College  and  re- 
sponded warmly  to  the  old-world  charm  of  his  surround- 
ings, at  Stamford  in  Lincolnshire,  at  Shoreham-by-Sea  in 
Sussex,  and  at  Ayr  in  Scotland.  On  March  27,  1918, 
while  he  was  at  Ayr  he  received  his  commission  as  first 



lieutenant.  At  almost  the  same  time  the  news  of  his 
father's  sudden  death  cast  a  heavy  shadow  across  the  life 
in  which  he  was  taking  such  pleasures  as  it  might  yield. 
These  took  the  form  of  occasional  visits  to  London,  where 
there  were  friends  and  relatives  to  be  seen,  of  companion- 
ship with  congenial  fellow-students  of  aviation,  of  reading, 
and  of  correspondence  with  his  immediate  circle  at  home. 
Fragments  from  his  letters  to  friends  and  family  are  sig- 

From  Oxford,  for  example,  he  writes  that  a  fortune-teller 
predicted  that  all  kinds  of  bad  things  would  happen  to 
him,  and  adds,  "By  the  way,  I  am  going  to  get  through 
this  war  —  he  was  certain  of  that."  From  Shoreham  he 
writes,  February  15,  1918:  "I  feel  as  if  I  might  be  a  fairly 
decent  aviator.  I  have  come  on  very  fast  this  week.  It's 
all  due  to  stunting  and  taking  liberties  with  the  machine 
in  the  air.  You  get  up  to  a  height  of  about  2500  feet  so 
that  you  have  plenty  of  room  to  recover  in  case  anything 
happens,  and  then  try  loops,  spins,  steep  turns,  and  all 
kinds  of  things.  You've  no  idea  how  quickly  it  gives  you 
confidence.  You  feel  as  if  you  could  do  anything  you 
wanted.  Yesterday  I  found  myself  flymg  upside  down. 
Nothing  happens,  of  course.  It's  very  easy  to  straighten 
a  machine  out  of  any  position  you  find  yourself  in."  In 
November  he  writes  from  Stamford,  "I  have  been  reading 
Shakespearian  plays  lately,  and  enjoy  them  a  lot.  I  bought 
several  small  volumes  which  I  carry  about  in  my  pockets." 
After  a  tiresome  sojourn  in  Lincoln,  in  the  following  April, 
"I  read  an  awful  lot  there— William  James.  I  wish  you  'd 
read  him  some  time.  Some  of  his  books  are  perfectly 
great.    They  give  one  the  freshest  outlook  and  make  you 



feel  full  of  energy  and  cheerfulness."  A  few  weeks  later 
the  need  of  such  a  stimulus  appears,  when  he  writes  from 
Bristol,  "I  have  had  an  occasional  fit  of  spring  fever,  i.e. 
the  dumps,  but  nothing  serious.  Luckily  in  this  sort  of 
work  I  can  always  manage  to  get  away  from  the  mob. 
How  much  easier  army  life  is  for  those  people  who  like  a 
crowd!"  Apart  from  such  specific  matters  his  letters 
were  constantly  revealing  a  lively  concern  in  all  his  in- 
terests at  home,  his  horses.  Myopia  Hunt  affairs,  his 
friends,  and  the  readiness  of  a  modest,  competent,  en- 
gaging young  American  to  get  what  he  could  from  the 
counterparts  of  these  interests  under  new  conditions. 

By  the  spring  of  1918,  his  training  was  advanced  to  the 
point  at  which  he  could  be  assigned  to  a  definite  piece  of 
work,  namely  that  of  "ferrying"  new  machines  from  the 
places  of  manufacture  in  England  across  the  channel  to 
France.  On  April  8  he  wrote  from  London,  "I  am  still 
'ferrying,'  took  a  machine  to  France  yesterday.  It's  very 
amusing,  you  get  to  know  the  whole  of  England.  It's  like 
travelling  on  a  map,  as  the  coast  lines  stand  out  so 
clearly."  A  fortnight  later  he  tells  of  a  mishap  in  landing 
due  to  the  mistaking  of  one  town  for  another  of  the  same 

What  he  would  naturally  have  much  preferred  from 
the  first  was  an  assignment  to  regular  squadron  duty  on 
the  front.  At  length  it  came.  On  May  21  he  wrote 
from  the  front,  under  the  heading,  No.  83  Squadron,  9th 
Wing,  R.  A.  F.,  B.  E.  F.,  "I  am  on  the  threshold  of  the  real 
thing  now.  I  have  been  assigned  to  'flight.'  On  the  very 
next  day  while  he  was  practising  war  manoeuvres,  Morti- 
mer's machine,  by  some  unexplained  accident,  came  into 



collision  with  another.  The  tailplane  of  his  machine  was 
cut  oflF,  and  falling  from  a  height  of  4000  feet,  he  was  in- 
stantly killed.  This  was  near  Hesdin  Wood  in  the  north 
of  France,  and  there  he  was  buried,  his  grave  marked 
with  a  cross  made  from  the  propeller  of  an  aeroplane. 

In  September,  1920,  a  bridge  inscribed  with  Mortimer's 
name  w^as  dedicated  to  his  memory  at  the  Myopia  Hunt 

In  the  St.  Mark's  School  volume  from  which  a  few  words 
about  Mortimer  have  already  been  quoted,  his  personal 
charm,  his  courage,  and  other  high  qualities,  are  set  forth 
with  sympathy  and  understanding.  "And  beneath  every- 
thing," says  the  writer  of  the  memoir,  "unknowTi  perhaps 
to  those  who  saw  him  but  casually,  was  a  sweetness  of 
disposition  seldom  found  in  either  man  or  woman,  a  re- 
sponsive, eager  sympathy  and  optimism  which  made  his 
mere  presence  a  privilege  and  a  benediction.  His  school 
and  his  college  and  his  country  may  honor  him  for  his 
brave  heart  and  his  loyal  devotion;  but  in  the  hearts  of 
his  friends  alone  lies  the  more  precious  gift  and  memory  of 
all,  the  spirit  of  a  love  which  can  never  fail." 



Class  of  1917 

J.  H  E  paternal  ancestors  of  Kenneth  Pickens  Culbert  were 
English  and  settled  in  Canada,  where  his  grandfather  and 
uncle  held  government  posts  and  bore  an  active  part  in 
the  development  of  the  country.  On  his  mother's  side  the 
descent  was  English,  Scotch,  and  French,  and  withal  so 
American  that  more  than  fifty  representatives  of  his  stock 
are  counted  among  those  who  bore  arms  in  the  American 
Revolution.  He  was  born  at  Bellevue,  Pittsburgh, 
Pennsylvania,  August  22,  1895,  the  son  of  William  Henry 
Culbert  and  Emma  Leonie  (Pickens)  Culbert.  During  his 
childhood  his  parents  moved  from  Pittsburgh  to  East 
Orange,  New  Jersey,  where  Culbert  attended  a  private 
school  and  then  prepared  for  college  at  the  East  Orange 



High  School  and  with  private  tutors.  He  graduated  at 
the  High  School  in  1913,  valedictorian  of  his  class.  For 
four  years  he  had  played  on  the  school  football  and  base- 
ball teams,  and  in  1913  he  was  captain  of  the  school  track 

At  Harvard,  which  he  entered  with  the  Class  of  1917,  he 
rowed  on  the  freshman  crew,  became  a  member  of  the 
freshman  football  squad,  of  the  University  football  squad 
in  his  sophomore  year,  and  of  the  University  crew  squad 
in  1915,  1916,  and  1917.  He  belonged  to  the  Freshman 
Mandolin  and  University  Musical  Clubs,  and  served  on 
the  sophomore  and  junior  entertainment  committees  of 
his  class.  His  clubs  were  the  D.  K.  E.,  Institute  of  1770, 
Speakers',  Phoenix,  Stylus,  Signet,  and  Hasty  Pudding. 
In  addition  to  these  interests  and  activities,  Culbert  ap- 
plied himself  so  effectively  to  the  task  of  "making"  the 
Crimson  that  he  led  the  competition  for  the  paper  in  his 
sophomore  year;  in  his  junior  year  he  was  secretary  of  the 
Board  of  Editors. 

Culbert's  direct  connection  with  the  war  began  with  his 
enrollment  in  the  R.  O.  T.  C,  in  which  he  rose,  before  the 
end  of  his  senior  year,  to  the  rank  of  captain.  Before  that 
year  ended,  he  left  college  to  enter  the  U.  S.  Marine  Corps 
training  school  at  Quantico,  Virginia.  Here  he  received 
his  commission  as  second  lieutenant  (M.  C),  August  27, 
1917,  and  was  assigned  to  the  74th  Company,  6th  Regi- 
ment, Marines,  stationed  at  Quantico.  On  September  17, 
he  sailed  with  his  regiment  from  Philadelphia  for  France 
on  a  vessel  that  was  forced  to  put  in  at  New  York,  whence 
its  final  departure  overseas  was  made  September  22.  In 
this  brief  interval  Culbert  was  married,  September  19, 



to  Miriam  Edith  Towle  of  Cranford,  New  Jersey  (Welles- 
ley,  '18),  to  whom  he  had  been  engaged  for  nearly  a  year. 

Soon  after  reaching  France,  Culbert  became  so  inter- 
ested in  aviation  that  he  secured  a  transfer,  October  16,  to 
the  First  Corps  Aviation  Schools  at  Gondrecourt,  where 
he  was  commissioned  Student  Naval  Aviator,  November 
26.  On  February  5,  1918,  he  was  assigned  to  Escadrille 
217  of  the  French  Army,  operating  in  the  Champagne 
sector.  "For  two  months,"  writes  his  friend  and  class- 
mate, R.  T.  Fry,  in  the  Triennial  Report  of  the  Class  of 
1917,  "he  flew  with  the  French,  but  on  April  1,  1918,  was 
transferred  back  to  the  First  Aero  Squadron,  then  at 
Ourches  in  the  Toul  sector.  During  this  time  Culbert 
had  become,  as  expressed  by  one  of  the  majors  of  his 
former  regiment,  'one  of  our  most  skilful  and  daring  aerial 
observers,'  a  fact  attested  later  by  the  award  of  the  Croix 
de  Guerre,  made  in  recognition  of  his  work  during  the 
battle  of  Seicheprey  and  other  occasions." 

Three  letters  from  Culbert  to  Professor  C.  T.  Copeland 
show  him  in  France  at  three  stages  of  his  experience,  in 
the  training  school,  with  the  French,  and  with  the  Ameri- 
can Army.  They  are  quoted  here  with  some  fullness,  both 
for  what  they  tell  about  war-time  conditions,  and  also  for 
their  revelation  of  Culbert  as  an  observer,  not  from  the 
aerial  point  of  vantage  only. 

November  21,  1917. 

.  .  .  Perhaps  a  few  words  about  myself  will  get  me  "ori- 
ented," and  give  me  a  bit  of  a  framework  to  build  upon.  I  got 
my  commission  in  the  United  States  Marines  without  any 
trouble,  thanks  to  your  and  other  letters,  and  a  long  lanky 
frame.     Darrah  Kelley,  was  under-weight,  and  no  amount  of 



argument  and  pleading  could  make  up  for  the  deficiency.  I  felt 
extremely  sorry,  but  was  powerless  to  do  anything.  After  a  few 
months  with  the  Sixth  Regiment  at  Quantico,  Va.,  —  a  place 
selected  for  a  cantonment  by  a  process  that  eliminated  all  logic, 
and  brought  politics  to  the  fore,  —  we  got  off  in  the  early  part 
of  September.  As  I  stood  a  regular  turn  in  the  submarine 
watch,  —  two  on  and  six  off,  —  I  can  assure  you  very  sincerely 
that  the  transports  take  no  end  of  precautions  to  evade  the 
"fish,"  as  conmianders  call  them.  In  thirteen  days  we  sighted 
France,  going  slowly  up  a  tiny  river  into  a  small  port,  just  as 
dusk  settled.  Some  women  were  waving  American  flags  on  the 
porches,  or  rather  the  doorsteps,  of  their  tiny  white  houses,  and 
I  felt  thrills  leaping  from  my  heart  to  my  head  that  I  shall  never 
forget.  The  spirit  of  France,  her  sacrifices  and  hardships,  her 
maltreatment  and  loyal  fight  —  a  lot  of  boyish  emotions  made 
m.e  stand  up  straight  as  an  arrow.  And  I  noticed  the  sternness 
of  the  expressions  on  the  faces  of  the  officers  about  me.  We  were 
beginning  to  realize  why  we  were  there. 

Once  on  land  we  hustled  to  a  camp  and  got  shook  doAvn. 
Then  we  began  the  work  which  a  vanguard  must  always  do  in 
preparation  for  that  which  is  to  follow.  Of  course,  some  of 
the  work  did  n't  have  much  to  do  with  the  rifle  and  bullet,  or  the 
bayonet,  but  it  was  and  is  necessary;  at  present  of  vastly  greater 
importance  than  the  above.  With  the  necessity  of  five  men  be- 
hind the  lines  for  one  at  the  front  the  adage  about  the  acorn  and 
the  oak  is  reversed  to  a  large  extent  as  regards  war.  The  gigan- 
tic proportions  of  the  preparation  that  is  necessary,  —  in  ways 
of  transportation,  cantonments,  supplies,  etc.,  before  we  can 
really  take  care  of  the  big  armies  which  are  to  come  in  the  next 
few  years, — are  almost  inconceivable.  My  one  constant  hope  is 
that  the  desire  to  enter  the  fight  as  soon  as  possible  will  not  cause 
some  of  these  preparations  to  be  hustled  or  slighted.  Every- 
thing up  front  depends  on  the  efiiciency  of  the  forces  in  the  rear. 

I  with  many  other  ofiicers  soon  left  the  regiment  for  instruc- 
tion in  the  ways  and  means  of  playing  the  game.    And  we've 



been  getting  it  for  the  past  couple  of  months  in  a  manner  that 
makes  one  itch  for  the  actual  hunting  grounds.  Sir,  I  admire, 
sympathize  with,  and  love  the  French,  but  it's  the  British  to 
whom  I  give  my  respect.  They've  got  the  "spirit  of  the  bayo- 
net"; they've  changed  their  easy-going  temperament  and, 
taught  by  bitter  experience,  answer  the  cry  "Kamerad"  with 
a  short  sharp  jab;  they're  fighting  mad,  playing  the  game  for 
all  that  it's  worth.  System?  They've  got  everything  down  to 
a  fine  point;  a  great  part  of  the  time  the  Tommies  don't  even 
realize  that  the  games  they  are  playing  are  developing  just  the 
traits  of  character  and  strength  of  muscle  necessary  to  exter- 
minate the  Boche.  Oh,  the  Germans  are  afraid  of  them.  They 
know  what  lies  in  store  for  them  when  the  English,  the  Cana- 
dians, or  especially  the  Australians  are  opposite  them,  and  in  the 
still  small  hours  they  come  sneaking  over  singly  and  in  pairs  to 
give  themselves  up.  Which  is  what  every  sensible  Boche  ought 
to  do  right  now,  —  in  my  humble  estimation.  Unfortunately 
very  few  of  them  are  sensible. 

So  we're  passing  the  time  training  and  hardening  up,  occa- 
sionally getting  actual  experience  where  "make-believe"  no 
longer  holds.  I  personally  am  to  be  the  aerial  observer  of  an 
infantry  contact  machine,  a  duty  that  to  me  is  as  interesting 
as  it  is  important  in  battle.  Before  I  came  over  I  had  never 
heard  of  such  a  man,  indeed  it 's  been  a  succession  of  hearing, 
learning,  and  putting  into  practice  new  things,  new  methods  of 
killing  the  enemy.  The  old-fashioned  all  round  infantryman  is 
but  the  shade  of  past  glories;  today  everyone  is  a  specialist  in 
some  one  particular  thing,  and  informed  in  all  things  generally. 
Gas,  with  its  terrifying  results,  trench  mortars,  automatic  rifles, 
grenades;  bayonets,  wire  entanglements;  trenches;  communi- 
cation systems;  aeroplanes,  —  what  not?  All  have  men  who 
speak  of  nothing  save  them.  War  is  even  more  highly  special- 
ized than  modern  industry  in  the  heads  of  efficiency  experts. 
And  we  're  going  to  keep  on  specializing  until  we  've  won.  Surely 
it  will  take  a  few  years;   casualty  lists  will  be  heavy;   mistakes 



will  be  made,  but  the  point  is  we  will  win.  Furthermore  the 
sacrifices  necessitated  at  home  and  the  new  ideas  derived  there- 
from, are  going  to  help  the  United  States  along  considerably,  in 
ways  that  will  be  more  than  subtle.  Do  you  think  I  am  mis- 
taken, sir? 

I  heard  of  Billy  Meeker's  ^  death  with  sadness.  He  was  the 
first  of  our  class  to  go.  To  me  though,  there  was  something 
glorious  in  his  death,  for  the  motives  that  permitted  the  possi- 
bility of  death  were  of  the  purest.  Many  more  will  follow,  —  all 
gladly,  —  content  in  knowing  that  they  are  doing  their  share. 

March  22,  1918. 

It's  been  long  since  I've  written  —  almost  four  months 
now  —  so  there 's  much  to  say.  For  incursions  or  prolonged 
"Permissions"  into  the  personal  I  hasten  to  apologize  —  yet 
after  all,  war  can  only  be  interesting  through  its  reaction  on 
every  individual.  Not  that  every  one  of  the  millions  fighting  — 
or  helping  those  that  fight  —  has  a  different  reaction,  but  most 
Americans  have,  because  we  're  new  at  the  thing,  because  we  've 
come  far  to  express  in  work  thoughts  that  stirred  our  minds  in 
oddly  different  ways!  Somewhere  I  suppose  Mars  is  compla- 
cently thinking  to  himself  "I  am  he!  —  I  am  the  one  who  has 
revolutionized  the  thoughts  of  millions  of  men!  I  am  he  who 
saturated  the  minds  of  the  Huns  with  lust  for  conquest;  I  am 
he  who  awakened  the  soul  of  America,  and  planted  the  seeds  of 
nobility  in  her  heart.  I,  I  alone,  have  done  all  this!"  Well,  sir, 
from  the  mess  some  profit  must  come  —  and  I  believe  that  the 
individual  as  an  individual  is  the  recipient.  Later  the  good  will 
come  to  individuals  bound  together  as  a  state  —  but  not  for 

Perhaps  my  opinion  is  boyish !  One  thing  is  certain  —  the 
awakened  desire  to  help  is  of  inestimable  benefit  to  a  man;  and 
the  gradual  changing  of  that  eager  desire  for  adventure  and  for 
glory  to  a  pounding  powerful  determination  to  never  relax  until 
right  is  won  is  of  even  greater  benefit.    The  slogan  of  the  French 

1  See  Vol.  II,  pp.  105-113. 



poilus  exemplifies  that;  nothing  but  supreme  respect  exists  in 
men  when  I  hear  them  say  ''lis  ne  passeront  pas."  War  for 
them  is  so  vastly  different  than  it  is  for  us  —  as  yet.  But  enough 
of  reflections;  "the  froth  is  out  of  the  bottle,"  as  Meredith  says 
—  so  on  to  my  story, 

I  intensely  wish  that  you  were  here  tonight.  You  would  see 
the  newest  phase  of  warfare  at  its  very  best !  The  moon  is  high 
in  a  clear  sky,  stars  are  shining  brilliantly  and  the  intersecting 
rays  of  search-lights  are  restlessly  shifting  all  over  the  heavens. 
I've  just  come  in  from  watching  it  all.  The  roar  of  motors  in 
the  air  is  constant;  the  frequent  bursts  of  our  shells  and  the 
stray  tak-tak  of  our  machine  guns  is  entirely  drowned  now  and 
again  by  the  terrific  bursts  of  the  bombs  landing  in  the  near  dis- 
stance;  —  it's  a  game  of  give  and  take,  with  the  odds  in  favor 
of  bombing  planes,  for  they  are  as  needles  in  a  mammoth  hay- 
stack !  The  night  is  ideal  for  their  work  —  so  ideal  that  women, 
children,  and  civilian  non-combatants  in  the  towns  back  from 
the  front  will  suffer  heavily.  It 's  a  powerful  weapon  —  it 's 
demoralizing  effect  must  be  tremendous. 

Frankly  the  first  time  our  field  was  bombed — (or  rather  was 
the  target  for  poorly  placed  bombs)  —  I  was  quite  weak  about  the 
knees;  now  I  have  not  even  gone  to  the  dugouts.  You  see  when 
you  figure  it  out :  if  the  Powers  that  be  decide  that  a  mass  of 
steel  is  going  to  fall  so  accurately  from  miles  above  that  my 
little  six  by  six  semi-dugout  is  going  to  get  hit  —  well,  I  guess 
I  'm  scheduled  then  for  fair.  Rank  fatalism  —  is  n't  it?  Only 
truthfully,  it's  not,  for  I've  never  thought  up  such  an  argument 
until  this  instant.  It's  the  coming  thing  in  aviation.  I  believe 
that  in  another  year  twenty  squadrons  —  not  three  —  will 
bunch  together  and  go  miles  and  miles  into  Bocheland,  seeking 
the  most  effective  resting  place  for  their  burdens.  Some  of  the 
larger,  more  destructive  bombs  are  tremendous  things,  and, 
well-dropped,  their  capacity  to  make  buildings  look  like  nothing 
at  all  is  remarkable.  Certainly  they  detract  a  bit  from  the  horror 
of  the  San  Francisco  earthquake!    But  so  it  goes. 



Of  what  Americans  are  doing  I  know  nothing  except  that 
which  I  read  in  the  French  papers.  Reports  credit  them  with 
all  the  fighting  spirit,  bravery,  and  cool-headedness  that  the 
great  majority  of  Uncle  Sam's  soldiers  possess.  I  believe  we're 
holding  a  part  of  the  line  in  four  or  five  different  places  — 
and  holding  it  well.  That's  splendid  —  glorious  —  indicative 
of  that  which  is  to  come.  And  only  as  the  latter  can  we  — 
must  we  —  view  it.  It's  like  the  delightful  order  of  the  roast 
which  is  to  be  eaten  —  the  real  thing  is  yet  to  come.  I  say 
"delightful"  because  years  from  now  that  is  how  every  mem- 
ory of  our  part  will  be.  There  are  millions  on  the  other  side, 
trained  fighting  machines,  with  as  little  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  in  their  make-up  as  is  allowed  by  the  laws  regulating 
the  formation  of  mortals  in  God's  workshop.  One  burst,  or 
intermittent  bursts,  of  American  enthusiasm  and  patriotism  will 
be  worse,  far  worse,  than  nothing  at  all.  Men,  men,  men,  and 
more  men  must  come;  and  to  maintain  them  the  necessary  food, 
guns,  material,  gas  equipment  must  be  sent  in  ever  increasing 
quantities.  I  know  we  have  the  older  men  at  home  who  have 
the  brains  to  arrange  the  extensive  work  required.  It  would  be 
a  sin  if  they  could  not  profit  from  the  early  mistakes  of  our 
Allies  —  and  simply  get  together  to  work  for  one  end.  But  war 
has  not  touched  home  and,  until  it  does,  patriotic  men  with 
hearts  and  minds  working  normally,  will  constantly  have  to 
fight  those  smaller,  meaner  "things"  whose  hearts  are  sadly  out 
of  place,  whose  minds  have  degenerated  from  years  of  the  com- 
mercial art  of  cutting  throats.  Yes,  it's  a  figurative  expression 
only,  but  how  terribly  near  it  comes  to  being  the  truth.  For 
every  single  man  who  offers  his  service  to  the  government  for 
nothing,  I  imagine  there  are  many  who  see  the  war  as  an  op- 
portunity. Sir,  if  we  can't  get  into  it  whole-heartedly,  with 
every  physically  able  man  fighting  and  all  others  helping  be- 
hind the  lines  (their  work  is  quite  as  important),  it's  better  that 
we  get  out  of  it  at  once. 

Tonight  at  dinner,  for  instance,  we  had  a  poilu  as  guest  of 



honor.  At  the  tables  were  the  ten  French  officers  of  the  esca- 
drille,  Saunders  (a  southern  chap  of  the  finest  character) ,  myself 
and  the  poilu.  The  latter  was  a  man  of  forty-five;  he  has  been 
in  the  war  for  two  years  and  a  half,  serving  at  present  with  a 
battery  of  155's  in  the  woods  north  of  here.  The  inspiring  part 
of  the  incident  was  that  he  was  the  father  of  the  first  lieutenant 
commanding  the  escadrille.  Yes,  because  the  war  is  in  France, 
and  not  in  United  States,  it  throws  a  different  light  on  the 
question  of  personal  contribution,  but  in  that  incident  is  food 
for  thought  for  those  at  home  not  helping,  even  vicariously. 
We  've  got  a  big,  sober,  horrible  task  before  us  as  a  nation.  Only 
by  realizing  it  as  that  alone  can  we  hope  for  anything  save  weak 
memories.  For  those  Americans  who  have  died,  countless 
thousands  must  come  to  die,  and  so  on  and  on  until  that  glori- 
ous time  when  America  shall  be  synonymous  with  "honor,"  and 
the  rights  of  man  and  woman,  —  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world. 
Eventually  —  not  now  —  we  shall  win,  for  we  must  win.  We 
must!!!!    We  have  no  alternative,  we  want  none. 

How  I  wish  that  everyone  at  home  could  see  the  front,  could 
see  ruins  that  once  were  peaceful  country  villages,  shelled  ground 
that  once  was  productive  fields,  miles  of  stumpy  lands  that 
once  were  quiet  forests,  picnic  places  perhaps  for  the  peasantry. 
How  I  wish  they  could  see  stalwart  men  huddled  together,  white 
bandages  over  their  eyes,  blinded  from  gas;  or  a  few  of  the 
chaps  reached  by  liquid  fire !  You  see  it 's  not  the  old-time  war- 
fare of  rifles  and  bullets,  or  even  the  later  warfare  of  huge  shells 
—  but  it 's  the  newest  and  most  horrible  warfare  of  a  combina- 
tion of  all  things  terrible.  The  worst  part  only  comes  in  war  of 
movement,  it  is  true,  such  as  has  occurred  in  this  sector  for  the 
last  few  days  —  but  the  rest  of  the  time  trench  life  is  pretty 
much  of  a  bore,  I  imagine.  When  I  'm  not  in  the  air  (and  a  three 
hour  turn  finishes  the  day's  flying)  I  often  hop  a  truck  to  a  spot 
a  mile  or  so  from  the  trenches  (for  we  have  a  big  mountain  as 
part  of  the  trench  system,  with  our  troops  on  the  summit,  which 
affords  a  fairly  good  approach)  and  wind  my  way  through  com- 



munication  trenches  to  the  front  lines.  It's  a  useless  sort  of 
warfare,  three  or  six  months  waiting  in  caves  and  mud  for  a  few 
days  of  attack,  an  attack  which  regardless  of  its  outcome  means 
a  resumption  of  the  dugout  life.  The  men  are  comfortable,  as 
that  goes,  in  their  dugouts,  huge  holes  which  shoot  twenty  to 
thirty  feet  underground  in  this  particular  sector  —  and  the 
shells  which  fall  ordinarily  do  nothing  save  cut  up  the  ground 
a  bit  more,  if  such  a  thing  is  possible.  Those  men  are  the  real 
heroes  of  this  war,  though.  Theirs  is  the  hardest  task,  theirs  the 
greatest  sacrifices,  the  greatest  personal  hardships.  It  makes 
you  stop  in  supreme  admiration  when  you  think  of  men  having 
lived  that  life  for  over  three  years  and  still  cheerfully,  grimly, 
sticking  on  and  on  —  that  the  "bells"  in  the  German  village 
churches  shall  not  ring  in  announcement  of  new  victories.  At 
such  times  America's  duty  shines  most  brightly  before  my  eyes! 
We  are  late  —  unquestionably  —  but  I  trust  not  too  late. 

You  've  probably  wondered  —  as  many  others  have  —  when 
the  proposed  German  drive  is  to  come.  Perhaps  the  rumblings 
from  distant  sectors,  and  the  recrudescence  of  artillery  fire  that 
has  occurred  in  this  sector  within  the  last  few  days  are  the  be- 
ginnings. WTio  knows?  At  all  events  the  French  are  calmly, 
confidently  awaiting  the  big  test;  and  from  what  I've  seen  of 
them,  I  have  gathered  great  confidence  in  their  military  system 
and  their  soldiers.  They  are  better  prepared  at  this  moment, 
the  morale  of  their  army  is  better,  and,  all  told,  the  entire  situa- 
tion is  brighter  than  it  has  been  at  any  time  since  the  beginning  of 
hostilities.  Of  the  British  I  have  seen  little  — nothing  —  of  late, 
but  they  are  better  soldiers  than  the  Huns  and  the  Huns  know  it. 

Myself,  I  finished  training  in  January,  and  since  then  have 
been  with  Escadrille  217,  in  the  Champagne  sector.  My  work 
takes  me  over  Rheims  daily.  You  can  imagine  how  beautiful 
the  semi-ruined  cathedral  is  as  the  oblique  rays  of  the  sun, 
striking  it,  make  it  loom  up  above  the  tiny  houses  cluttering 
about.  It  is  a  dream  picture,  —  one  which  I  would  like  to  look 
down  upon  for  hours,  but  I  am  generally  otherwise  occupied. 



Aviation  is  a  comfortable,  interesting  life.  There's  none  of 
the  constant  noise  of  shells,  there's  none  of  the  blood  and  gore 
of  things  once  men,  there's  none  of  the  stationary  cave  life  of 
the  trenches.  We  have  good  bunks,  good  food,  comfortable 
quarters.  In  a  way  it's  a  remarkable  existence,  mixing  hours 
of  idleness  and  moments  of  intense  danger.  Removed  from  war 
in  its  horror,  it's  still  an  integral  part  of  it.  Frequently  our 
machines  don't  come  back  —  but  death  has  no  disgusting  nau- 
seating effects,  for  the  plane  falls  far  from  here,  and  life  goes  on 
as  before.  I  believe  it 's  the  nicest  part  of  the  war,  the  life  is  very 
pleasant,  and  there's  an  element  of  sport  in  it.  It's  clean  in  life, 
and  death.  One  could  not  ask  for  more  than  that  in  war  times. 
^^^len  my  duty  here  will  be  over  I  don't  know,  however,  as  soon 
as  the  1st,  to  which  I  am  attached,  has  its  machines,  I  reckon. 
Six  months  have  gone  by,  with  new  experiences  and  varied  life. 
My  baptism  of  fire  —  in  trench  and  in  the  air  —  is  a  thing  of  the 
past.  First  fears  are  gone,  my  real  duty  has  gotten  under  way. 
Needless  to  say  I  am  no  end  happy.  One's  part  in  the  war  is 
so  small  at  best  that  you  have  to  keep  right  at  it  in  order  to 
make  a  showing  at  all  commensurate  with  your  own  hopes. 

It  has  been  the  sort  of  warm  spring  that  brings  thoughts  of 
Cambridge,  of  a  good  paddle  on  the  river,  a  cold  shower  and  a 
chocolate  milk  (what  I  would  give  for  one  at  the  College  Phar- 
macy right  now)  afterwards,  and  a  quiet  evening  in  my  room, 
or  at  Wellesley,  —  the  abode  of  my  dear  wife.  Sounds  funny, 
does  n't  it,  sir,  but  I  married  the  sweetest  girl  just  before  I  left, 
and  I  'm  forced  to  write  you  of  it  in  my  great  happiness  thereof. 

How  is  Cambridge.'*  Do  chaps  still  seek  the  light  in  upper 
Hollis  on  Monday  nights  —  or  have  you  changed  the  evening? 
The  regiment  —  is  it  flourishing  in  high  and  martial  style?  Oh ! 
there 's  just  one  trouble  with  France  —  it 's  too  silly  far  from 
home  and  old  times.  The  Tommy,  the  poilu,  the  Jock  get  home 
once  in  four  months  for  a  fortnight.  Were  that  so  with  us,  I'd 
be  serenely  happy.  As  it  is  I  am  anyway  —  which  is  not  quite 
logical  —  but  true  withal. 



May  31,  1918  {at  night). 

When  last  I  wrote  you  the  moon  was  almost  translucent  in  a 
cold  clear  sky;  tonight  it  seems  tinged  with  the  blood  of  men 
and  mellowed  with  the  endless  succession  of  years.  Api)le 
blossoms  are  on  the  trees,  the  air  is  soft  and  soothing,  and  below 
in  the  valley  at  our  feet  the  Meuse  is  running  quietly  along; 
which  means  that  winter  has  slipped  by,  and  summer  has  come. 
Again  I  wish  you  could  be  here  —  not  to  be  in  the  midst  of  an 
air-raid  tonight,  but  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  this  spot.  Were 
it  not  for  the  faint  rumbling  of  cannons  in  the  distance  you 
would  imagine  that  ours  was  a  hunting  lodge  in  the  Maine  woods. 
For  our  huts  are  lost  in  a  tiny  batch  of  fir-trees  on  the  upper 
slope  of  a  hill;  below  is  the  river,  and  across  the  valley  a  typical 
tiny  French  village. 

It's  hard  to  reconcile  such  peaceful  rural  scenes  with  war  — 
somehow  cows  browsing  by  the  side  of  a  stream,  the  fragrance 
of  apple  blossoms  in  the  air,  and  the  clear  notes  of  church-bells 
are  in  no  way  connected  with  the  general  notion  of  war.  Yet  one 
has  but  to  tramp  over  the  hill  and  see  the  tiny  black  crosses  on 
the  planes  (which  denote  Hun  bullet  holes,  or  shrapnel  from 
"Archies  ") ;  or  amble  along  the  country  road  and  watch  French 
and  American  troops  resting  from  their  turn  in  the  trenches; 
or  cut  cross  the  field  to  the  hospital  to  realize  that  war  has  left 
its  marks  here  as  in  all  places. 

That  is  the  one  big  thing  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States 
will  never  have  to  contend  with  —  simply  because  Germany  will 
never  be  able  to  reach  their  lands  —  and  because  France  has  had 
to  put  up  with  that  for  so  long  a  man's  heart  very  readily  goes 
out  in  sympathy  for  the  country  people  of  France.  How  hard 
it  must  have  been  for  them  to  see  the  places  they  were  born  in, 
and  had  lived  in  and  loved,  shattered  and  destroyed.  Why !  the 
civilians  of  France,  the  peasant  women  in  the  countless  little 
towns  are  nothing  short  of  heroes.  There's  only  one  solution, 
one  remedy,  one  sedative.  Regardless  of  all  errors  we  may  make, 
regardless  of  the  quickly  passing  time,  regardless  of  all  political 



and  industrial  obstacles,  we  mvst  gather  together  the  men  and 
material  with  which  to  carry  the  war  into  German  territory.  For 
just  as  British  and  American  civilians  are  in  a  comparatively 
safe  position,  so  are  the  civilians  of  hated  Germany.  And  it  is 
a  regrettable  fact  that  the  temper  of  the  people  at  home  is  the 
biggest  influence  on  that  of  those  at  the  front.  United  States 
has  the  resources  —  and  for  once  we  must  tap  them  without 
mourning  over  the  cost;  seeing  only  the  results  that  are  to 

Copey,  there  are  so  many  things  that  seem  queer  and  inex- 
plicable—  but  it's  neither  loyal  nor  opportune  to  criticize!  I 
only  hope  the  men  in  whose  hands  the  industries  and  prepara- 
tions lie  realize  that  the  lives  of  the  men  at  the  front  are  de- 
pendent directly  upon  them,  that  red  tape  and  petty  differences 
back  home  are  identical  to  the  stabs  of  the  Hun  bayonets  and 
the  burst  of  Hun  shells  to  the  man  at  the  front  —  in  the  trenches, 
at  the  batteries,  or  in  the  air.  Men  with  imagination  realize 
that  —  here 's  hoping  those  chaps  who  work  and  act  solely  by 
precedent  are  soon  gotten  rid  of! 

This  old  war  is  the  most  gigantic  business  proposition  that 
ever  came  along.  And  obviously  the  more  efiiciently  it's  run 
the  less  human  sorrow  will  come  from  it ;  and  greatly  fewer  will 
be  the  broken  hearts.  Coordination  and  cooperation  —  com- 
plete and  to  the  fullest  extent  sincere  and  persistent  —  are  what 
we  need.  Until  we  get  that  France  will  continue  to  see  her 
towns  crumpled  to  stark  walls,  men  of  the  Allies  will  die  in 
agony  —  and  the  Hun  will  ring  his  damned  '" Austerglochen" 
in  token  of  supposed  victories.  The  Hun  may  have  made  some 
strategical  and  tactical  gains,  but  he's  never  won  a  victory,  for 
victories  don't  come  until  hearts  and  wills  are  broken  and  the 
last  drop  of  blood  has  been  drained.  That  he  has  never  ac- 
complished in  any  way.  The  French,  soldier  and  peasant  alike, 
are  undaunted.  The  British  are  hurling  the  Huns  back  and 
dying  in  their  tracks  like  the  men  they  are  —  and  thank  God 
we've  come  at  last,  with  all  the  ardor  of  youth  and  faith  in  the 



right  of  our  cause  to  put  our  links  into  the  chain  that  must  never 
be  broken, 

I  wish  I  knew  of  much  to  write  you  —  of  the  progress  of  the 
war,  of  our  troops,  or  of  many  failures.  But,  unfortunately,  as 
the  French  say,  when  you  are  in  the  country  far  from  anyone 
save  your  brother  officers  "on  ne  sait  pas  grande  chose  de  la 
guerre"  You  've  probably  heard  that  Doug  Campbell  has  gotten 
two  Boches  already.  From  every  indication  he's  going  to  be 
one  of  the  best  men  we  '11  ever  have  in  that  end  of  flying  —  just 
as  he  was  one  of  the  most  genuine  men  who  ever  went  through 
Cambridge.  Harvard  has  its  "sons"  all  over  France  —  indeed 
six  of  us  (officers  in  my  squadron)  have  started  a  Harvard  Club 

of  O .    You  can  imagine  how  greatly  the  village  is  honored 

when  you  consider  that  it  has  just  about  thirty  closely  packed 
stone  shacks,  and  two  rather  common  cafes  —  where  you  can 
buy  very  good  champagne,  and  very  poor  beer. 

Perhaps  you  know  some  of  the  men.  First  and  foremost  is 
Steve  Noyes  —  (he 's  an  old-timer  and  a  prince  of  a  chap)  who 
is  a  pilot;  a  youngster  named  Hughes,  of '18;  another  compara- 
tively old-timer  named  Hopkins;  and  Jocelyn  of  '16,  and  my- 
self. Billy  Emerson,  '16,  was  the  sixth  —  but  I  regret  to  tell 
you  that  last  taps  were  sounded  for  him  last  week.  We  do  not 
know  whether  the  "antis"  got  him,  or  whether  it  was  a  Boche 
plane.  He  went  out  on  a  reglage  and  was  shot  down  in  our  lines. 
He  was  an  honor  to  Harvard,  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier, — the 
first  of  our  little  club  to  gain  the  one  glorious  epitaph. 

Perhaps  you  'd  like  to  hear  of  Major  Luf bery 's  funeral  —  you 
doubtless  know  that  he  was  shot  down,  and  fell  from  his  burning 
plane  into  a  courtyard.  He  had  done  a  great  deal  in  uniting 
the  French  and  Americans,  —  he  was  the  greatest  of  our  air- 
men and  seventh  on  the  list  of  French  aces,  —  he  had  all  the 
qualities  of  a  soldier,  audacity,  utter  fearlessness,  persistency, 
and  tremendous  skill, — in  every  way,  sir,  he  was  a  valuable  man. 

As  we  marched  to  his  interment  the  sun  was  just  sinking  be- 
hind the  mountain  that  rises  so  abruptly  in  front  of  T ;  the 



sky  was  a  faultless  blue,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent 
of  the  blossoms  on  the  trees  in  the  surrounding  fields.  An  Ameri- 
can and  French  general  led  the  procession,  following  close  on 
to  a  band  which  played  the  funeral  march  and  "Nearer,  my  God, 
to  Thee"  in  so  beautiful  a  way  that  I  for  one  could  hardly  keep 
my  eyes  dry.  Then  followed  the  officers  of  his  squadron  and  of 
my  own  —  and  after  us  an  assorted  group  of  Frenchmen  famous 
in  the  stories  of  this  war,  American  officers  of  high  rank,  and 
two  American  companies  of  infantry,  separated  by  a  French  one. 

How  slowly  we  seemed  to  march  as  we  went  to  his  grave, 
passing  before  crowds  of  American  nurses  in  their  clean  white 
uniforms,  and  a  throng  of  patients  and  French  civilians!  He 
was  given  a  full  military  burial;  with  the  salutes  of  the  firing 
squad,  and  the  two  repetitions  of  taps,  one  answering  the  other 

from  the  west.    General  E made  a  brief  address,  one  of  the 

finest  talks  I  have  ever  heard  any  man  give  —  while  throughout 
all  the  ceremony  French  and  American  planes  circled  the  field. 
In  all  my  life  I  have  never  heard  taps  blown  so  beautifully  as  on 
that  afternoon  —  even  some  of  the  officers  joined  the  women 
there  in  quietly  dabbing  at  their  eyes  with  white  handkerchiefs. 
France  and  United  States  had  truly  assembled  to  pay  a  last 
tribute  to  one  of  their  soldiers.  My  only  prayer  is  that  somehow 
through  some  means  I  can  do  as  much  as  he  for  my  country  be- 
fore I  too  wander  west  —  if  in  that  direction  I  am  to  travel. 

As  for  myself,  sir  —  I  left  the  French  front  about  six  weeks 
ago  and  joined  the  First  Aero  —  going  with  it  to  the  so-called 
American  front.  Our  sector  is  comparatively  quiet,  and  life  goes 
on  as  usual.  My  squadron  is  an  observation  one  —  we  direct 
our  artillery  fire  (and  I  'm  glad  to  tell  you  that  our  artillery  has 
knocked  the  stuffings  out  of  several  Boche  batteries) ;  we  work 
with  the  infantry,  and  photograph  the  enemy  positions.  It's 
useful  work  and  quite  interesting.  Every  man  in  the  outfit  is 
praying  that  the  morrow  will  bring  orders  sending  us  up  to  the 
Somme  for  work  in  the  new  offensive  which  the  Huns  will  doubt- 
less begin  in  short  order.    But  there's  no  place  on  earth  like  the 



army  for  rumors  and  unexpected  happenings  —  so  in  the  mean- 
time we  're  doing  our  best  here. 

When  important  things  begin  to  happen  I  shall  write  to  you 
at  once,  and  not  feel  then  that  perhaps  my  notes  are  not  overly 
interesting^ — and  if  you  don't  mind  I  would  like  to  let  my 
thoughts  smear  themselves  on  paper  quite  often  —  so  please 
bear  up  under  the  threat  of  my  intentions.  Just  now  my  lantern 
is  warning  me  to  blow  her  (or  "him"  as  the  English  say)  out 
so  I  reckon  it  '11  have  to  be  good  night,  sir  —  for  this  time. 

On  the  day  after  that  letter  was  written,  on  the  very 
day  that  its  envelope  containing  Ciilbert's  prophetic  allu- 
sion to  "travelling  west,"  was  postmarked,  he  met  the 
death  awaiting  an  aviator.  The  words  of  his  friend,  Russell 
Fry,  may  best  be  used  again,  this  time  to  relate  the  cir- 
cumstances of  Culbert's  death,  and  to  suggest  the  im- 
pression stamped  by  his  character  upon  those  who  knew  it 

.  .  .  About  five  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  May  22,  1918, 
while  flying  over  the  lines  near  St.  Mihiel,  the  plane,  apparently 
struck  by  a  German  anti-aircraft  shell,  became  immanageable 
and  crashed  just  behind  our  lines,  the  pilot  being  killed  in- 
stantaneously and  Culbert  rendered  unconscious. 

He  was  taken  at  once  to  the  American  hospital  at  Sebastopol 
Farm,  just  north  of  Toul,  where  he  died  at  midnight  without 
having  regained  consciousness.  And  there  he  was  buried,  his 
body  being  moved  later  to  the  American  cemetery  at  Thiau- 

His  life  had  been  spent  in  the  great  out-door  world,  leaving 
him  as  free  from  the  affectations  of  conventionalized  man  as  the 
great  seas  which  shattered  themselves  against  that  jMaine  island, 
his  summer  home.  His  was  an  essentially  elemental  character, 
—  honest,  upright,  unafraid;    quick  to  applaud  another's  ac- 



complishments,  equally  quick  to  condemn  his  shortcomings. 
And  as  his  life  was  fearless,  vigorous,  unselfish,  —  so,  too,  was 
his  death. 

The  posthumous  award  of  the  Croix  de  Guerre  mentioned 
in  the  earlier  quotation  from  the  1917  Triennial  Report 
was  made,  in  a  General  Order  of  the  Army,  in  the  follow- 
ing terms: 

Jeune  officier  d'un  grand  cceur,  animS  du  plus  pur  sentiment  du 
devoir,  ay  ant  fait  preuve  au  cours  de  plusieurs  reconnaissances  sur 
Vennemi  de  sang-froid,  de  courage,  et  de  decision.  Blesse  mor- 
tellement  le  22  Mai,  1918. 



Class  of  1917 

W  ILLIAM  St.  Agnan  Stearns  bore  the  name  of  his 
grandfather,  a  member  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1841,  a 
resident  of  Salem,  where  he  lived  in  the  house  built  by 
his  grandfather,  Joseph  Sprague,  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
His  son,  the  late  Richard  Sprague  Stearns,  and  Carrie 
(Gill)  Stearns,  now  of  Boston,  were  the  parents  of  William 



St.  Agnan  Stearns,  who  was  born  in  Eastbourne,  England, 
September  12,  1895.  An  older  brother  was  George  Gill 
Stearns,  '09,  who  enlisted,  September,  1914,  in  the  Cana- 
dian Army;   a  younger,  Richard  Sprague  Stearns,  Jr.,  '20. 

William  Stearns  made  his  preparation  for  college  at 
Noble  and  Greenough's  School  in  Boston,  and  entered 
Harvard  with  the  Class  of  1917.  He  joined  the  Institute 
of  1770,  D.  K.  E.,  Hasty  Pudding,  and  Fox  Clubs.  In 
his  sophomore  year  he  was  a  member  of  the  LTniversity 
Rifle  Team,  of  which  he  was  captain  in  his  junior  and 
senior  years.  In  the  summer  vacation  of  his  sophomore 
year,  1915,  he  attended  the  Plattsburg  camp. 

Promptly  upon  the  entrance  of  the  LTnited  States  into 
the  war,  he  enlisted  as  a  private,  first  class,  in  the  Aviation 
Section  of  the  Signal  Corps,  and  in  May,  1917,  began  his 
training  in  the  ground  school  at  the  Massachusetts  In- 
stitute of  Technology.  On  July  10,  he  was  transferred  to 
Mineola,  New  York;  on  August  11,  he  qualified  as  a 
Reserve  Military  Aviator,  and  was  detailed  to  the  ground 
school  at  Kelly  Field,  Texas.  He  sailed  for  France,  No- 
vember 1,  and  was  detailed  first  to  the  Third  Aviation 
Instruction  Centre  at  Issoudun,  and  later  to  the  Bombing 
School,  Seventh  Aviation  Instruction  Centre,  at  Clermont- 
Ferrand.  In  January  he  received  his  commission  as  first 
lieutenant.  Aviation  Section,  Signal  Corps,  and  was  ap- 
pointed instructor  at  the  Clermont-Ferrand  school.  Here 
he  met  his  death  in  an  airplane  accident,  May  25,  1918. 

Such  are  the  bare  facts  of  Stearns's  military  record.  The 
following  passage  from  a  letter  written  by  a  f ellow-av  iator. 
Captain  W^alker  M.  Ellis,  of  the  Princeton  Class  of  1915, 
who  spent  the  academic  years  of  1915-17  at  the  Harvard 



Law  School,  and  took  the  Harvard  degree  of  LL.B.  in 
1919,  provides  the  personal  detail  which  will  recall  the 
man  himself,  and  relates  the  manner  of  his  untimely 

I  knew  him  first  at  Ground  School,  where  we  were  both  in  the 
first  Squadron  at  Boston  Tech,  and  was  immediately  attracted 
to  him  by  his  quiet  reserve,  his  evident  breeding,  and  the  fact, 
which  his  every  action  indicated,  of  his  being  an  altogether 
charming  gentleman.  .  .  . 

He,  as  you  know,  went  to  Mineola,  and  I  to  France.  Some- 
time near  the  end  of  November  he  passed  through  Tours,  where 
I  was  still  under  training,  but  he  stayed  only  a  day  and  proceeded 
to  Issoudun  for  his  advanced  training  on  Nieuports.  December 
found  me  at  Clermont  as  officer  in  charge  of  training,  and  I  be- 
lieve it  was  about  the  end  of  February  that  Bill  arrived  to  take 
the  bombing  course.  He  went  through  the  course  in  about  six 
weeks,  and  did  exceptionally  well.  Everyone  liked  him  —  how 
could  they  help  it?  I  remember  him  so  well  in  his  flying  clothes. 
The  helmet  accentuated  his  naturally  fine  profile,  and  he  really 
was  a  stunning  thing  to  look  at.  His  shapely,  curly  head  —  I 
can  see  it  now. 

Coming  home  from  a  cross-country  trip  one  day,  his  motor 
stopped  just  a  short  distance  from  the  field,  and  he  made  a  most 
difficult  and  most  beautiful  forced  landing  in  a  tiny  field.  The 
ship  was  entirely  unhurt,  and  after  the  wrecking  crew  had  rolled 
it  into  another  field  whence  it  was  possible  to  take  ofi",  he  insisted 
on  flying  it  back  to  the  home  aerodrome  himself,  which  he  did. 
The  whole  episode  showed  such  ability,  judgment,  and  spirit 
that  I  determined  to  hold  him  at  Clermont  as  an  instructor, 
though  much  against  his  personal  wishes.  He  was,  as  were  all 
of  us,  mad  to  get  to  the  front.  I  remember  thinking  at  the  time 
how  pleased  his  mother  would  be,  for  while  there  is  bound  to  be 
a  certain  amount  of  danger  in  flying,  one  is  generally  considered 
disgustingly  safe  in  school  work  compared  to  the  front. 



Though  he  did  n't  like  it,  he  accepted  his  assignment  cheer- 
fully and  did  splendidly  as  an  instructor.  Almost  all  of  the 
students  we  received  were  boys  with  lots  of  flying  time,  but  who 
had  never  flown  the  Breguet  machine  which  was  used  at  Cler- 
mont; and  a  part  of  his  job  was  as  double-control  instructor  on 
this  machine.  I  can  promise  you  that  he  had  a  very  happy 
time  with  us.  We  had  a  small  but  awfully  congenial  crowd  of 
twelve  or  fourteen  boys  on  the  instruction  staff.  All  of  us  knew 
all  phases  of  the  work,  and  no  one  had  any  fixed  job.  We  worked 
in  any  capacity  in  which  we  were  needed.  Bill  would  be  doing 
double-control  one  day,  and  the  next  might  be  in  charge  of  a 
cross-country  class,  assigning  ships  to  the  various  crews,  seeing 
that  they  got  off  all  right,  and  checking  them  on  their  return. 
We  soon  grew  to  have  absolute  confidence  in  him.  He  was  above 
all  things  reliable.  He  never  did  any  spectacular  flying,  but 
every  movement  in  the  air  was  perfect,  and  he  knew  what  he 
was  doing  every  instant  of  the  time. 

Meanwhile,  there  were  little  dinner  parties  in  Clermont  once 
or  twice  a  week,  and  sometimes  a  more  pretentious  week-end 
staged  at  Royat,  a  little  watering-town  in  the  mountains  nearby 
—  or  at  Vichy,  perhaps,  some  twenty  miles  distant.  Bill  had 
his  share  of  the  good  times,  but  always  with  that  same  quiet 
reserve  —  even  in  hilarity.  .  .  . 

Then  Spencer  Brainard,  who  was  our  chief  pilot,  went  to 
Tours  for  a  week  or  ten  days.  He  had  charge  of  testing  all 
planes  which  had  been  repaired  and  of  reassigning  them  for 
flying.  It  was  the  most  important  position  in  the  school,  and 
Bill  was  put  in  to  fill  his  place  during  his  absence.  There  are 
two  types  of  Breguet  machines  —  one  with  a  Renault  motor, 
of  which  we  had  only  ten,  and  which  are  much  more  powerful 
than  those  mounted  with  a  Fiat  motor,  which  were  what  we 
used  in  training.  Bill  went  up  on  Friday  in  one  of  the  Renault 
machines,  and,  delighted  with  the  excess  power,  he  did  some 
beautiful  but  rather  hazardous  flying.  I  think  it  made  him  just 
a  bit  overconfident.     The  next  day  there  were  two  or  three 



Fiats  which  had  just  come  from  the  repair  shop  and  were  ready 
for  testing.  Regular  school  flying  stopped  between  ten  in  the 
morning  and  three  in  the  afternoon.  I  went  to  town  for  lunch 
with  a  visiting  officer.  On  our  way  out  we  saw  a  bad  wreck 
lying  in  one  of  the  fields  just  about  half  a  mile  from  the  school. 
I  knew  it  could  only  be  Bill,  as  he  alone  was  in  a  position  au- 
thorizing him  to  fly  between  ten  and  three.  We  ran  over,  hoping 
against  hope  that  nothing  fatal  had  happened,  but  got  there 
just  as  they  were  lifting  him  from  the  wreckage.  He  was  killed 
instantly,  —  a  broken  piece  of  the  fuselage  penetrated  the  brain 
just  behind  his  right  ear.  It  is  just  as  well  that  it  happened  so, 
for  his  other  injuries  were  so  universal  and  serious  that  he  could 
not  possibly  have  lived  more  than  an  hour  or  two  — -  as  was  the 
case  of  the  poor  mechanic  with  him. 

It  seems  that  he  had  taken  up  one  of  the  Fiats  for  testing, 
and  had  flown  much  as  he  did  the  day  before  in  the  Renault. 
I  think  he  over  judged  its  power  to  pull  itself  out  of  awkward 
positions.  The  immediate  cause  of  the  trouble  was  a  vertical 
bank  at  about  2,000  feet,  during  which  the  nose  of  the  machine 
fell,  which  resulted  in  a  tail-spin,  or  vrille,  as  the  French  call 
them.  No  one  had  ever  spun  one  of  these  ships,  and  the  only 
conclusion  we  could  arrive  at  was  that  once  in  a  tail-spin,  it  was 
impossible  to  get  them  out,  for  he  had  plenty  of  altitude  and 
from  an  inspection  of  the  plane  it  was  evident  that  he  had  not 
lost  his  head  for  an  instant.  He  had  cut  his  switch,  turned  off 
his  gasoline,  and  closed  his  throttle  —  exactly  the  proper  things 
to  have  done  in  such  an  emergency.  Those  who  saw  the  fall 
say  that  the  ship  made  several  turns  in  the  spin,  but  at  no  time 
gave  any  evidence  of  coming  out  of  it.  It  struck  the  ground 
head  on  and  at  terrific  speed. 

No  other  accident  ever  did  or  will  affect  me  as  that  one  did 
—  and  I  have  seen  a  great  many.  He  was  such  a  dear  boy! 
and  he  represented  the  very  best  in  young  American  manhood. 
One  does  n't  realize  until  one  gets  into  the  army  how  few  charm- 
ing people  there  are  in  the  world.    I  had  made  it  a  rule  after 



any  accident  to  fly  immediately  myself  just  for  the  moral  effect 
on  the  students,  and  the  hardest  thing  I  have  ever  had  to  do  was 
that  flight  after  leaving  him  at  the  little  camp  hospital. 

We  draped  his  casket  in  American  flags,  and  an  oflficers'  guard 
of  honor  was  with  him  from  the  moment  of  his  death  until  he 
was  buried  Sunday  afternoon  at  four  o'clock  on  the  side  of  an 
old  hill  some  five  miles  from  camp.  There  were  many  beautiful 
flowers,  but  the  ones  that  pleased  me  most  were  innumerable 
little  posies  of  spring  blossoms,  gathered  and  brought  by  the 
kind  old  peasants  of  the  neighborhood.  The  services  were  ab- 
solutely simple,  and  for  that  reason  beautiful.  The  six  ofiicers 
most  intimate  with  him,  including  myself,  carried  him,  and  the 
whole  personnel  of  the  school  did  him  honor.  .  .  . 

He  has  become  part  of  the  greatest  tradition  the  world  has 
known  since  Christ,  of  the  highest,  most  glorious  comradeship 
of  spirits  that  ever  foregathered  in  youth.  I  am  reminded  of  a 
question  of  Stevenson's  —  "Does  not  life  go  down  with  better 
grace  in  full  foam  over  the  cataract,  than  straggling  to  an  end 
in  sandy  deltas?  "  Bill  went  down  just  that  way.  He  gave  his 
life  with  a  fine,  free  gesture  in  the  hot  flush  of  youthful  idealism 
—  whence  spring  all  noble  thoughts  and  pregnant  visions. 

I  have  known  so  many,  many  boys  who  have  gone  that  way. 
Do  you  know  that  of  the  ten  from  that  flrst  Squadron  who  went 
immediately  to  France  only  three  of  us  are  left,  and  only  ten 
of  the  original  twenty-three  who  were  at  Tech  together? 



Class  of  1916 

J.  HERE  is  an  anecdote  of  Henry  Clarke's  boyhood  which 
has  a  bearing  upon  his  adult  character.  It  is  told  that  his 
mother,  in  the  interest  of  the  bodily  safety  of  the  small 
boys  of  the  neighborhood,  once  forbade  their  sliding  down 
the  front  steps  of  the  Clarkes'  house.    Her  son  came  in  and 

told  her  that  the  boys  had  been  calling  her  names. 




hope  you  stood  up  for  me,  Henry,"  she  said.  "Yes,"  he 
repHed,  "I  stood  up  for  you,  but  I  did  n't  say  anything." 
Carrying  the  spirit  of  this  speech  into  the  war,  he  repre- 
sented the  best  type  of  American  soldier. 

He  was  born  in  Chicago,  November  19,  1893,  the  son  of 
Charles  Atherton  Clarke  and  Georgiana  (Whiting)  Clarke, 
who  have  lived  in  Newton,  Massachusetts,  since  this  son 
was  two  years  old.  The  grandfather,  Henry  W^are  Clarke, 
for  whom  he  was  named,  was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  Robert 
Clarke,  a  Unitarian  minister  of  Princeton  and  Uxbridge, 
Massachusetts,  who  named  his  only  son  for  his  friend  and 
colleague,  Henry  Ware  (Harvard,  1812).  The  first  Ameri- 
can Clarke  of  his  family,  Robert  Clarke,  settled  in  Lon- 
donderry, New  Hampshire,  in  1725.  His  mother's  first 
American  ancestor,  the  Rev.  Samuel  W^hiting,  came  in 
1636  to  the  Massachusetts  town  which  in  1630  was  incor- 
porated as  Saugus,  but  in  1687,  in  compliment  to  the  new 
minister,  from  Lynn  in  England,  was  re-named  Lynn. 
Through  many  later  generations,  the  Whiting  family  lived 
in  Charlestown,  Massachusetts. 

Henry  Clarke  attended  the  grammar  and  high  schools 
of  Newton,  and,  for  one  term,  the  Stone  School,  in  Boston. 
He  entered  college  with  the  Class  of  1916,  and  in  due 
course,  though  showing  a  special  interest  in  the  study  of 
literature  and  theology,  took  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of 
Science.  In  the  Memorial  Report  of  his  class  one  of  his 
friends  has  written  of  him:  "His  quiet,  frank,  and  pleas- 
ant manner  with  his  quaint  humor  made  him  a  charming 
friend  and  companion.  These  traits  that  made  him  a 
favorite  among  his  circle  of  college  friends,  together  with 
a  strong  sense  of  duty,  high  ideals,  and  steadfast  courage, 



made  him  a  leader  who  won  the  respect  and  affection  of 
the  men  and  officers  of  his  command."  Again  the  youth 
foretold  the  man. 

In  the  summer  of  his  graduation  he  attended  the  Busi- 
ness Men's  Training  Camp  at  Piatt sburg,  and  in  the  au- 
tumn went  into  business  with  his  father  in  the  Universal 
Boring  Machine  Company  at  Hudson,  Massachusetts. 
Here  he  showed  ability  and  aptitude,  but  when  the  United 
States  entered  the  war,  he  volunteered  for  the  First  Officers' 
Training  Camp  at  Plattsburg,  where  he  was  attached  to 
the  New  England  Regiment,  first  in  the  11th,  then  in  the 
2d  Company.  On  August  15  he  received  his  commission 
as  second  lieutenant,  O.  R.  C,  infantry.  Volunteering 
immediately  for  service  overseas,  he  was  one  of  the  first 
nineteen  Reserve  Officers  chosen  for  this  duty,  and,  sail- 
ing early  in  September,  reached  France  before  the  month 
was  out. 

On  October  10,  Clarke  was  assigned  to  the  British  Army 
for  a  few  weeks  of  training  at  a  bayonet  school,  where  he 
also  received  instruction  in  Swedish  gymnastics.  This 
took  him  into  the  forward  area  near  Lens.  In  one  of  his 
letters  home  he  wrote: 

Have  been  here  a  week  now  and  am  having  a  fine  time.  The 
food  is  very  good  and  the  work  is  interesting.  The  only  thing 
wrong  is  the  cold,  and  you  get  used  to  that.  We  work  all  day 
in  running  suits,  shoes,  and  puttees.  When  it  is  very  cold,  we 
wear  sweaters,  but  that  does  n't  help  your  knees.  We  have  had 
visits  from  a  lot  of  generals,  among  them  one  of  our  own.  One 
English  general  gave  us  a  talk  which  was  very  interesting.  He 
started  in  the  war  as  a  company  commander  and  he  told  us  some 
fimny  stories  of  his  experiences.  One  time  his  company  was 
doing  some  hard  fighting  in  the  vicinity  of  a  canal.    He  got  a 



telegram  from  Brigade  Headquarters  asking  if  he  could  assign 
any  reason  for  the  sudden  fall  in  the  level  of  the  canal.  As  he 
was  busy  thinking  of  other  things,  he  replied  that  he  could  only 
attribute  it  to  the  extraordinary  thirst  of  the  fishes. 

When  this  experience  was  ended  he  wrote,  November  4 : 

The  British  gave  us  a  trip  up  to  the  front  line.  I  was  in  the 
front  line  five  days,  and  in  all  that  time  got  only  ten  hours' 
sleep.  When  we  all  reassembled,  everybody  told  all  the  exciting 
things  that  had  happened.  The  fellow  who  could  tell  the  biggest 
lie  was  the  best  man.    I  did  my  best,  but  was  soon  out-classed. 

In  November  he  was  assigned  to  the  16th  Infantry, 
First  Division,  A.  E.  F.,  and  to  this  unit  of  the  Regular 
Army  he  belonged  until  he  was  killed.  Early  in  November 
he  served  in  the  first  line  trenches  at  Luneville.  On  No- 
vember '28,  at  Joire,  he  was  appointed  assistant  judge 
advocate  by  Major  General  Sibert,  and  in  March  and 
April  of  1918  took  a  course  in  machine  gunnery  at  an 
American  machine  gun  school  in  France.  His  letters 
through  all  this  period,  broken  by  a  seven-days  leave  at 
Evian-les-Bains,  where  his  sister  was  serving  as  nurses' 
aide  in  the  children's  hospital,  picture  a  happy,  hard- 
working existence,  in  a  manner  c^uite  innocent  of  heroics. 
In  February  he  wrote:  "The  censor  has  at  last  allowed 
us  to  write  home  that  we  are  in  the  line,  which  you  prob- 
ably knew  long  ago.  It  is  not  half  so  bad  as  it  is  cracked 
up  to  be.  Sometimes,  if  you  have  an  ambitious  striker  and 
get  a  good  dug-out,  you  live  like  a  prince.  The  only 
trouble  is  they  do  all  their  fighting  at  night.  This  is  one 
place  where  I  find  my  college  education  a  blessing.  Please 
keep  on  sending  magazines,  also  cigarettes.    Don't  worry 



about  mail  —  any  I  don't  get  somebody  else  will."  And 
on  February  26:  "Have  read  all  the  books  Helen  sent 
with  much  interest.  She  wanted  to  know  what  kind  to 
send.  Sentimental  novels  are  the  best;  the  more  senti- 
mental the  better.  This  is  not  only  my  opinion,  but  every- 
body's else."  From  the  gunnery  school  he  writes  of  a 
"fellow  from  Yale"  in  whose  company  he  took  much 
pleasure.    Passages  from  three  letters  in  the  last  month  of 

his  life  are  illuminating: 

May  12,  1918. 

Spring  is  certainly  with  us  now,  in  France.  The  trees  are  out, 
the  country  is  green,  and  it  is  warm.  Everybody  is  much  hap- 
pier now,  even  with  the  German  offensive.  We  have  baseball 
games,  play  quoits,  etc.,  and  have  a  pretty  good  time  —  that  is, 
we  do  now,  for  we  are  back.  We  had  a  pretty  interesting  time 
today.  A  French  bombing  plane  came  over  the  towm  we  were 
in,  and  it  showed  signs  of  having  engine  trouble.  That  was  all 
right,  but  all  of  a  sudden  it  dropped  a  bomb  which  landed  fairly 
close.  That  rather  made  us  doubt  its  identity,  and  so  when  it 
landed  in  a  nearby  field,  we  hot-footed  it  over,  half  expecting 
to  capture  a  couple  of  Bodies.  The  aviators  were  French,  how- 
ever, and  had  dropped  the  bombs  because  they  did  n't  want 
them  hanging  on  the  machine  in  case  they  made  a  poor  landing. 
We  had  a  good  look  at  the  plane  and  the  machine  guns,  which, 
of  course,  were  interesting  to  us.  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  had  two 
days  in  Paris  on  the  way  back  from  school?  Paris  one  day  and 
the  trenches  the  next  was  what  really  happened  to  us;  and  they 
were  some  trenches,  but  we  are  out  of  them  now. 

The  Germans  are  taking  a  lot  of  punishment  now.  Some  of 
of  them  are  feeling  pretty  sick.  The  Americans  have  n't  had  a 
picnic  in  this  sector,  but  it's  not  as  bad  as  we  expected.  You 
don't  read  about  us  in  the  newspapers,  but  we  are  in  the  real 
sector  where  there  is  action.  Others  get  the  notoriety,  but  the 
Regular  Army  is  still  on  the  job. 



May  16,  1918. 

Today  is  Mother's  Day,  and  I  celebrated  by  collecting  beau- 
coup  mail  that  has  accumulated  for  me.  At  present,  I  am  in  a 
large  woodcutting  detail.  We  are  cutting  stakes  for  wire  en- 
tanglements. It  is  pretty  interesting  because  we  are  located 
back  in  a  wood  that  is  filled  with  artillery.  Living  here  for  a 
few  days  shows  you  what  is  going  on  behind  the  lines.  The  most 
interesting  part  of  the  war  in  many  ways  is  the  work  of  transpor- 
tation. And  it  is  dangerous.  At  night  the  German  artillery 
opens  up  on  the  roads  leading  to  the  front  and  to  the  dumps. 
Over  these  roads  the  ration  and  ammunition  wagons  have  to  go, 
and  it's  no  fun.  You  can't  blame  mule  drivers  for  swearing 
when  you  see  what  they  have  to  go  through.  We  had  some  fun 
today  with  a  couple  of  officers  we  had  down  to  see  us.  There 
is  an  ammunition  dump  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  from  our 
camp,  and  the  German  howitzers  are  working  on  it  pretty 
steady.  You  can  hear  the  shells  coming,  and  they  make  a 
frightful  noise.  After  the  first  one  came  over,  we  had  to  send 
a  searching  party  out  to  find  our  friends.  We  are  used  to  it  — 
and  have  great  confidence  in  the  accuracy  of  the  Boche  gunners. 

There  is  a  persistent  rumor  around  that  the  1st  Division  is 

going  home  soon.     They  even  say  that  there  is  a  sign  on  the 

Statue  of  Liberty  saying,  "Welcome  home,  1st  Division."     I 

am  used  to  rumors  now,  however. 

May  26, 1918. 

The  weather  is  hot  over  here  now,  and  we  have  had  no  rain 
for  ten  days.  This  is  such  a  remarkable  drought  that  some  of 
the  wells  are  drying  up.  I  got  a  whole  sack  full  of  mail  yester- 
day, some  of  which  was  meant  to  have  reached  me  on  Christmas. 

We  are  billeted  in  the  smallest  town  I  have  every  been  in.  It 
is  composed  of  three  farms.  Nevertheless,  it  has  a  name,  and 
is  on  the  map.  It  is  a  good  place  to  be  because  the  German 
bombing  planes  pass  it  up  and  go  after  the  more  pretentious 
burgs.  We  lie  in  our  tent  at  night,  and  hear  them  going  by,  and 
pretty  soon  the  bombs  begin  to  drop  on  all  sides.    The  place  is 



shy  of  good  billets,  but  we  don't  complain,  although  lately  we 
have  been  disturbed  by  having  bullets  intended  for  the  planes 
dropping  around  us.  We  moved  our  tent  under  a  brick  wall  so 
now  all  is  well. 

On  May  28,  two  days  after  writing  the  letter  just  quoted, 
he  was  killed  during  the  first  counter  attack  of  the  Germans 
after  the  American  capture  of  Cantigny.  An  eye-witness 
of  his  death,  Lieutenant  Joseph  Connor,  reported:  "He 
was  commanding  a  platoon  of  machine  guns,  and  putting 
on  indirect  fire  during  the  attack,  and  he  had  not  been 
firing  more  than  three  minutes  when  a  Boche  155  shell 
exploded  near  him.  The  shrapnel  shattered  his  knee, 
and  one  piece  went  through  his  head  just  above  the  eye. 
He  was  killed  instantly,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  his  face 
when  we  carried  him  out." 

Clarke  w^as  buried  at  Bonvilliers,  near  Cantigny.  On 
December  23,  1921,  his  body  was  reinterred  at  Mt. 
Auburn  Cemetery,  Cambridge.  The  official  recognition 
of  his  valor  was  expressed  in  the  following  citation: 

Headquarters  First  Division 

General  Orders  No.  1.     January  1,  1920. 

The  Division  Commander 

cites  for  gallantry  in  action 

and  especially  meritorious  services 

2d  Lieutenant  Henry  W.  Clarke,  M.  G.  Co.,  16th  Inf. 

who  was  killed  in  action 

near  Cantigny,  France,  May  28,  1918. 

By  command  of 
Major  General  Suivevierall. 

His  fellow-officers  wrote  of  him  to  his  father  as  their 
"beloved  friend  and  comrade."   One  of  them,  the  "fellow 



from  Yale"  to  whom  allusion  has  already  been  made,  was 
himself  killed  in  action  on  October  9,  1918.  Three  months 
before  his  death  he  wrote  to  Clarke's  sister: 

July  9,  1918. 
My  dear  Miss  Clarke: 

Your  brother  was  the  first  officer  whom  I  met  when  I  joined 
the  Company  last  December.  I  was  assigned  to  his  billet,  and 
well  remember  that  night.  I  had  spent  two  sleepless  nights  on 
a  train  that  barely  crept  along,  and  it  was  very  cold,  as  the  win- 
dows in  the  compartments  had  all  been  broken. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  little  village  where  the  Company  was 
billeted,  I  was  pretty  tired  and  despondent,  but  I  was  surely 
lucky  in  having  your  brother  for  a  room-mate.  He  did  every- 
thing that  he  could  possibly  do  to  make  me  comfortable  and  at 
home.  Since  then,  we  were  together  almost  constantly,  and  I 
cannot  begin  to  tell  you  how  many  good  times  we  had  together. 
He  was  the  very  best  kind  of  a  friend  a  man  could  have.  Many 
a  night  we  sat  before  an  open  fire,  smoking  our  pipes  and  talk- 
ing until  it  was  far  into  the  night.  And  what  discussions  and 
arguments  we  used  to  have.  One  night  it  would  be  religion, 
and  on  another  literature,  or  we  would  argue  mightily  on  so- 
ciology. It  used  to  be  a  regular  Harvard-Yale  debate;  and 
Harvard  would  generally  win,  though,  of  course,  Yale  seldom 
acknowledged  it. 

Late  in  April,  we  received  orders  to  go  to  a  machine  gun 
school,  and  there  had  bunks  opposite  each  other.  The  machine 
gun  work  came  very  easily  to  Henry,  but  I  was  always  in  trouble, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  him,  I  would  never  have  gotten  through 
the  course.  He  was  always  only  too  ready  and  willing  to  help 
me  out,  though  I  was  forever  pestering  him  with  questions.  In 
the  afternoons,  just  after  school  had  finished  for  the  day,  we 
used  to  walk  down  to  a  village  where  we  often  had  supper.  We 
were  both  very  fond  of  omelet,  jelly,  and  chocolate,  and  that 
became  an  institution  with  us,  though  when  we  had  but  recently 
cashed  our  pay  vouchers  we  had  more  elaborate  repasts.     When 



the  more  than  welcome  boxes  came  from  home,  we  always  shared 
each  other's,  whether  it  was  cigars,  magazines,  or  candy. 

Never  have  I  met  with  a  more  even,  frank,  and  generous 
disposition  than  your  brother's.  He  never  became  ruffled  or 
impatient,  and  was  at  all  times  kind  and  considerate  of  others. 
Officers  and  men  loved  and  respected  him  alike.  Perhaps  I 
knew  him  as  well  if  not  better  than  anyone  in  the  Company, 
and  so  I  know  how  very  fortunate  I  was  to  have  been  his 
friend.   .  .   . 

Most  sincerely, 

Stanley  Young. 



Class  of  1916 

When  Haydock  had  been  less  than  two  months  in 
France  he  wrote  home  to  his  mother:  "I  am  afraid  thee 
may  think  from  this  letter  that  I  am  trying  to  pretend 
that  I  am  a  fire-eater,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  just 
as  peace-loving  as  ever  and  will  be  more  than  thankful  to 
get  home  at  the  first  opportunity.  It  is  rotten  business, 
but  I  hope  before  this  you  have  gotten  into  the  same 
frame  of  mind  I  have,  and  let  nothing  worry  you."  These 
are  typical  words  of  the  "fighting  Quaker"  —  one  who, 
having  conquered  an  inborn  repugnance  to  war,  through 
coming  to  see  that  by  its  means  evil  worse  than  itself  must 
be  destroyed,  can  throw  himself  into  it  with  all  the  greater 
force.    Such  a  soldier  was  George  Guest  Haydock. 



He  was  born,  of  Quaker  ancestry,  in  Germantown, 
Pennsylvania,  September  15,  1894,  the  son  of  Robert 
Roger  Haydock  and  Annie  Louise  (Heywood)  Haydock, 
now  of  Milton,  Massachusetts.  He  received  his  earlier 
schooling  at  the  Friends'  School  in  Germantown,  and  in 
the  autumn  of  1909  entered  Middlesex  School,  Concord, 
Massachusetts,  from  which  he  graduated  in  1912.  There, 
besides  playing  on  the  football  and  baseball  teams,  he 
entered  heartily  into  the  various  interests  of  the  place, 
and  greatly  endeared  himself  both  to  masters  and  to  boys. 

At  Harvard,  from  which  he  graduated  with  the  Class 
of  1916,  he  devoted  himself  with  special  interest  to  studies 
in  English.  In  athletics  he  made  an  excellent  record  as 
a  member  of  his  freshman  track  team,  and  of  the  Varsity 
track  team  in  his  junior  and  senior  years.  At  the  Yale- 
Harvard  meet  of  1916,  he  tied  for  first  place  in  the  pole 
vault  at  12  feet,  6  inches  —  a  fitting  achievement  for  the 
boy  of  whom  a  Philadelphia  friend  wrote  in  reminiscence, 
after  his  death,  to  his  parents:  "I  can't  think  of  your 
house  without  George  practising  pole-vaults  in  front  of 
the  stable  for  hours  at  a  time,  very  patiently  and  very 
determinedly,  and  all  by  himself."  In  his  senior  year 
also  he  entered  a  four-months'  competition  in  field  events, 
and  at  the  end  of  it  came  out  the  winner  of  three  cups, 
for  broad  jump,  high  jump,  and  pole-vault,  the  largest 
number  awarded  to  any  individual.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  Institute  of  1770,  D.  K.  E.,  Varsity,  Hasty  Pud- 
ding, Iroquois,  and  Fly  Clubs,  of  the  last  of  which  he  was 
president  in  1915-16. 

Through  the  Harvard  Regiment  he  received  his  first 
military  training.    In  the  summer  of  his  graduation,  1916, 



he  attended  the  Cth  Training  Camp  at  Phittsburg,  and  in 
the  autumn  entered  Sutton's  Mills,  a  woollen  factory 
of  The  Russell  Company,  at  North  Andover,  Massachu- 
setts. Beginning  as  a  "picker"  he  worked  through  several 
departments  of  the  mills,  until  there  was  need  of  him  in 
the  office.  Of  the  impression  he  made  upon  his  associates 
during  this  brief  experience  there  is  a  record  in  The  Russell 
Company  Bulletin  for  August,  1918:  "Throughout  the 
Mill,  he  was  well-known,  and  much  liked  by  the  employees 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  and  in  the  office,  where  his 
training  and  ability  were  especially  appreciated,  he  was 
looked  upon  as  a  hard  worker  and  a  student  of  the  business, 
and  was  loved  as  a  true  friend.  He  was  a  man  of  reserved 
and  quiet  nature,  and  one  whom  we  looked  forward  to 
having  with  us  again  at  the  termination  of  the  war." 

When  the  United  States  joined  the  Allies,  he  resigned  his 
position  with  The  Russell  Company  and  enlisted  in  the 
Army  at  Boston,  April  28,  1917,  and  on  May  11  went  to 
the  First  Officers'  Training  Camp  at  Plattsburg.  Here 
he  was  enrolled  in  Company  6  of  the  First  Provisional 
Training  Regiment,  and  on  August  15  received  his  com- 
mission as  first  lieutenant,  infantry,  O.  R.  C.  On  August 
29  he  reported  at  Hoboken,  New  Jersey,  for  overseas  serv- 
ice, and  on  September  8  sailed,  unattached,  for  England 
on  the  Orduna.  Landing  at  Liverpool,  proceeding  to 
Southampton,  he  reached  Havre,  September  26,  and  after 
a  few  days  at  a  rest  camp  was  ordered  to  the  Infantry 
School  of  the  Fifth  British  Army  at  Toutencourt,  near 
Amiens,  for  a  month's  training,  at  the  end  of  which  he  had 
a  brief  tour  in  the  first-line  trenches  at  the  British  front 
north  of  Quesnoy  and  east  of  Peronne.    On  November  14 



he  reported  at  Treveray,  in  the  Gondrecoiirt  training  area 
of  the  A.  E.  F.,  and  was  assigned  as  first  lieutenant  to  L 
Company,  28th  Infantry,  2d  Brigade,  1st  Division.  With 
this  unit  he  remained  until  his  death. 

Haydock's  many  letters  to  his  family  mingled  the  serious 
and  the  light-hearted  in  characteristic  fashion.     As  he 
neared  England  he  wrote,  September  22:    "The  coast  of 
Ireland  is  splendid,  all  covered  with  harps  and  shamrocks, 
just  as  I  always  thought  it  would  be."    In  a  letter  from  a 
Harvard  comrade   (W.  O.   P.  Morgan,   '18)    there    is   a 
typical  glimpse  of  him  on  his  way  to  the  British  training 
school    at    Toutencourt.      ''I    remember    in    particular," 
wrote  this  friend,  "one  large  switch-yard  where  we  stopped 
for  the  afternoon  and  had  our  first  game  of  soccer  with 
the  English  officers.    I  remember  so  well  standing  on  the 
platform  with  George  and  seeing  a  battalion  of  '  Tommies ' 
leave  for  'the  front,'  the  mysterious  place  which  neither 
of  us  could  imagine  in  vaguest  detail;   to  hear  them  sing- 
ing and  joking  was  beyond  us.     I  thought  of  our  rather 
shocked  sensations  at  that  time  when  the  following  May 
I  heard  George's  regiment  hilariously  singing  on  their  way 
up  to  Cantigny,  the  first  Americans  to  attack."    With  the 
British,  Haydock  learned,  among  other  things,  to  accus- 
tom himself  to  the  personal  ministrations  of  a  servant. 
"I  now  have  a  very  sporty  cane,"  he  wrote,  October  10, 
"and  a  long,  white  cigarette  holder,  so  when  I  wear  my 
'Sam  Browne,'  which  is  now  beautifully  polished  by  my 
'fellow,'  I  am  some  candy  kid.    Think  of  me  with  a  serv- 
ant!"   Again  on  October  21  he  wrote: 

It  is  queer  how  everything  here  seems  perfectly  natural, 
when  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  totally  different  from  anything  I 



have  ever  done  before :  we  just  follow  along  with  the  crowd  and 
think  nothing  about  it.  I  live  in  a  school  room,  and  sleep  on  a 
bed  with  chicken  wire  for  a  spring;  the  only  hot  water  I  get  is 
a  mugful  for  shaving,  which  my  servant  heats  up  for  me,  I  am 
afraid  he  will  spoil  me.  He  gets  everything  ready  for  me  in  the 
morning  and  then  wakes  me  up;  he  always  knows  just  what 
clothes  I  will  need  and  tells  me  just  how  cold  it  is,  but  I  think 
I  can  judge  that  better  than  he  can.  When  I  come  out  from 
breakfast,  Thorpe  is  waiting  with  my  equipment,  and  helps 
me  put  it  on;  quite  a  change  from  working  in  the  picker  room 
in  the  mill  at  Andover.  I  pay  him  twenty  francs  a  month,  about 
$3.50  now,  and  he  thinks  it  is  a  "cushy"  job.  Every  British 
officer  has  a  servant  as  part  of  his  equipment,  and  they  follow 
him  wherever  he  goes;  when  he  goes  over  his  servant  goes  with 
him  and  acts  as  runner.  They  claim  a  servant  is  indispensable, 
and  I  am  beginning  to  think  they  are  right,  though  it  does  n't 
seem  to  fit  exactly  with  American  ideas. 

But  the  hard  work  he  was  doing  interested  him  as  much 
as  the  social  customs  of  the  British  Army  —  including  tea 
and  dinners  graphically  described  —  and  when  his  course 
was  over,  he  wrote,  November  16,  two  days  after  joining 
the  28th  Infantry: 

From  the  time  I  left  the  school  until  I  arrived  here  I  had 
several  new  and  rather  thrilling  experiences.  We  were  sent  for 
four  days  to  the  English  front  and  enjoyed  a  few  new  sensations 
which  I  think  made  quite  an  impression  on  our  young  and  un- 
initiated brains.  To  get  to  the  lines  we  passed  through  miles 
and  miles  of  war- wasted  country  that  is  like  nothing  on  earth; 
it  looks  as  though  there  had  been  an  earthquake  there.  We  saw 
towns  where  there  was  not  a  single  building  with  a  roof  or  more 
than  two  walls,  and  in  many  cases  not  even  that :  they  had  been 
the  battle-ground  of  some  of  the  hardest  fighting  in  history, 
and  only  the  main  streets  had  been  cleaned  up.    When  we  got 



to  the  lines,  we  were  received  with  open  arms,  and  I  think  the 
English  were  really  glad  to  see  us,  because,  as  they  said,  it  must 
have  been  a  relief  to  them  to  see  someone  to  whom  the  war  was 
new.     I  spent  three  nights  in  the  front  lines,  and  although  it 
was  in  what  they  call  a  quiet  sector,  there  were  quite  enough 
shells,  etc.,  flying  around  to  suit  one,  considering  that  it  was  my 
first  time  under  fire.    It  was  a  strange  sensation,  but  did  not 
frighten  me  in  the  least;   but  it  was  a  bit  hard  to  realize  what 
it  all  meant.    It  is  a  most  peculiar  sort  of  life,  really  two  days 
in  each  twenty-four  hours.     It  was  pretty  quiet  through  the 
day,  unless  the  Hun  had  a  mind  to  do  a  little  strafing,  which  he 
usually  did  in  the  morning.  The  Major  would  find  out  where  the 
show  was  going  on,  and  then  we  would  go  a  different  way.    We 
would  go  the  rounds  in  the  morning,  sleep  in  the  afternoon,  go 
in  again  after  dark,  and  to  bed  at  two  or  three.    The  lines  are 
a  wonderful  sight  at  night,  as  there  are  veri  lights  going  up 
about  once  a  minute,  and  they  make  a  blinding  light.    If  you 
are  in  an  exposed  position  when  one  goes  up,  you  simply  stand 
motionless  until  it  burns  out;  otherwise  you  thank  him  for  keep- 
ing you  from  going  through  a  hole  in  the  duck-boards  and  up  to 
your  knees  in  mud.    At  one  place  we  were  only  seventy  yards 
from  the  Boche  line,  and  it  was  damned  exciting  trying  to  find 
a  patrol  that  they  thought  was  out.    I  did  not  have  my  clothes 
off  for  five  days,  all  but  one  of  which  were  rainy,  and  had  only 
my  slicker  and  a  borrowed  blanket  to  sleep  in  forty  feet  under- 
ground, with  rats  and  cooties  providing  the  entertainment;   so 
it  felt  very  good  to  get  back  to  a  bath  and  my  bed-roll. 

From  November  to  March,  Haydock's  regiment  had 
the  training  of  intensive  drill  and  manoeuvres  at  Treveray, 
St.  Amand,  Gondrecourt,  and  other  places.  Early  in 
March,  under  the  tactical  command  of  the  French,  it 
entered  the  front  line  of  the  Toul  sector,  for  defensive 
work  at  Seicheprey,  and  served,  in  support  and  reserve. 



for  a  month.     In  Haydock's  letters  the  various  aspects 
of  his  life  at  this  time  are  clearly  reflected.    The  following 

passages  are  typical : 

December  7. 

I  don't  remember  just  when  I  wrote  last,  but  I  will  try  and 
tell  you  some  of  the  things  we  have  been  doing  in  the  last 
rather  strenuous  week.  On  Monday  we  spent  the  day  hiking 
around  the  country,  but  did  not  prove  very  much  except  to  get 
pretty  tired.  Just  as  I  was  getting  into  bed  an  orderly  came 
around  with  an  order  saying  that  first  call  would  be  at  3.30  a.m., 
and  that  at  4.30  the  regiment  would  move  out  to  receive  Gen- 
eral Pershing  at  a  place  [Gondrecourt]  a  good,  healthy  fifteen 
miles  away;  that  we  would  wear  overcoats,  packs,  tin  hats, 
etc.,  and  otherwise  disguise  ourselves  as  Christmas  trees.  My 
opinion  of  the  General  immediately  dropped  considerably,  but 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  climb  out  and  hike.  It  was  a 
very  cold  morning  and  snowing  pretty  hard,  but  we  made 
almost  ten  miles  before  daylight,  and  then  had  to  stand  around 
an  hour  and  freeze;  we  then  polished  off  the  other  five  miles  and 
waited  an  hour  and  a  half  more,  during  which  time  we  were 
informed  that  it  was  the  first  time  since  General  Sheridan's 
time  that  an  American  regiment  at  full  war  strength  had  been 
reviewed  by  a  sure-enough  general,  and  that  on  the  whole  the 
28th  was  pretty  hot  stuff;  but  we  were  sure  that  3.30  in  the 
morning  was  pretty  cold  stuff  to  make  up  for  it.  When  we  got 
there,  we  lined  up  on  either  side  of  the  street,  and  pretty  soon 
along  came  Generals  Pershing  and  Bliss,  Lord  Northcliffe, 
Colonel  House  and  several  other  dignitaries;  the  regiment 
stood  at  present  arms  and  the  officers  at  salute  for  at  least 
fifteen  minutes,  while  they  walked  through  and  gave  us  the 
"once-over":  by  the  time  they  got  down  to  me  I  was  far  more 
interested  in  the  weight  in  tons  of  my  right  arm  than  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  reviewing  party,  although  I  did  look  at  them  out 
of  the  corner  of  my  eye.  The  best  thing  about  the  whole  party 
was  they  brought  us  home  in  trucks. 



Wednesday  I  had  to  lecture  to  my  platoon  for  four  hours  and 
keep  them  interested  and  warm  on  a  very  cold  day;  it  was  a 
good  deal  of  a  strain,  but  I  lived  through  it  and  kept  them  fairly 
interested  by  getting  off  every  wild  tale  I  had  ever  heard.  Again 
we  got  orders  for  3.30  a.m.  and  started  on  manoeuvres  for  three 
days,  each  day  beginning  at  three-thirty  and  ending  about 
three  in  the  afternoon.  Of  course  our  Company  got  the  most 
work  to  do.  Each  day  we  would  hike  from  ten  to  fifteen  miles 
and  take  up  a  position;  we  had  to  run  up  and  down  every  hill 
in  sight,  and  they  are  numerous  and  steep.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  had  to  handle  the  men  alone,  and,  after  being  liberally  cussed 
out,  learned  a  great  deal.  I  am  afraid  I  am  naturally  too  polite 
to  be  a  soldier;  it  is  not  in  me  to  bawl  men  out  the  way  it  should 
be  done;  but  I  learned  a  lot  through  rather  bitter  experience, 
and  am  getting  a  little  more  brass.  I  am  glad  tomorrow  is  a 
holiday  because  they  did  their  best  to  walk  the  legs  off  us  and 
keep  us  working  most  of  the  night  and  day,  but  we  are  all  good 
and  tough  now. 

I  had  a  party  arranged  for  Lou  [his  sister]  for  the  loth,  but 
I  hear  now  that  all  leaves  are  cancelled,  so  I  shall  have  to  call 
it  off  for  a  while:  we  seem  to  work  in  bad  luck  in  getting  to- 
gether. My  mail  is  coming  through  better  now.  It  is  a  bonne 
war.    Love  and  Happy  New  Year. 

December  23. 

Here  it  has  gotten  around  to  Sunday  again  without  my  having 
a  chance  to  write.  We  have,  as  usual,  had  a  very  busy  week, 
ending  up  with  divisional  manoeuvres  in  open  warfare.  The 
first  part  of  the  week  was  taken  up  with  the  usual  routine  drill 
and  two  pretty  long  hikes  on  slippery  roads.  The  plan  was  to 
have  us  go  out  Friday,  Saturday,  and  Sunday  on  the  big  ma- 
noeuvre, but  it  worked  out  slightly  differently.  To  begin  with 
I  might  mention  that  the  climate  is  much  the  same  as  that  of 
New  England;  at  present  everything  is  frozen  up  tight,  and 
we  have  had  enough  snow  in  the  last  week  to  make  the  ground 
white.    Friday  we  packed  up  our  bed-rolls  and  packs,  and  i)re- 



pared  for  what  might  come.  Not  desiring  to  lug  any  more  than 
necessary,  I  put  most  of  the  things  I  thought  I  would  want  in 
my  bed-roll,  which  goes  on  the  wagon.  Our  battalion  was  held 
in  reserve  to  defend  this  town,  and  the  result  was  that  we  stood 
from  nine  in  the  morning  until  six  at  night,  ready  to  move  at  a 
moment's  notice.  It  was  very  cold  standing  in  the  wind  and 
doing  nothing,  beside  which  we  got  very  little  to  eat  save  for  a 
little  bouillon.  At  six  our  Company  was  informed  that  we 
would  out-guard  our  brigade  (two  regiments)  for  the  night. 
That  came  as  a  blow,  as  I  had  visions  of  sleeping  in  my  billet. 
We  had  a  few  minutes  to  get  an  egg  and  piece  of  ham  for  supper, 
and  were  then  shown  what  part  of  the  world  we  had  to  cover. 
I  was  given  about  fifty  men  to  cover  approximately  three  miles 
on  the  extreme  right  flank,  and  we  were  told  that  a  brigade  of 
the  enemy  had  been  advancing  on  us  and  were  occupying  the 
next  town ;  so  we  had  to  keep  our  eyes  open,  and  at  about  seven 
o'clock  I  started  out  over  the  hills  with  my  men.  We  had  four 
outposts  about  half  a  mile  apart  and  connected  by  visiting 
patrols :  the  ones  on  either  end  were  near  enough  shacks  to  take 
advantage  of  them  and  build  fires  that  could  not  be  seen;  the 
other  two,  however,  were  in  the  open  and  could  not  have  fires. 
I  had  to  have  my  headquarters  in  the  centre,  as  we  were  cover- 
ing such  a  large  area,  and  so  was  out  of  luck.  By  about  nine 
we  were  established,  and  I  began  to  think  of  how  I  was  to  spend 
the  night.  We  were  on  a  high  ridge  with  the  coldest  wind  I 
have  ever  known  blowing  about  thirty  miles  an  hour  straight 
on  us. 

As  I  had  expected  to  get  my  bed-roll,  my  pack  contained 
one  blanket,  a  towel,  a  shelter  half  and  my  iron  ration.  The 
thermometer  must  have  been  about  20°,  but  it  felt  much  colder. 
I  found  a  place  where  some  grass  was  sticking  up  through  the 
snow,  and  told  the  men  with  me  (about  fifteen)  they  could  settle 
there  or  in  a  clump  of  woods  near  by.  I  chose  the  grass,  opened 
up  my  pack,  and  to  start  with  was  fairly  warm,  as  I  had  walked 
about  five  miles  to  get  the  sentries  posted.    It  was  a  beautiful, 



clear,  moonlight  night,  and  I  smoked  my  pipe  to  try  to  kid  my- 
self to  sleep;    and  just  as  I  was  dozing  off  the  Captain  came 
around  to  see  my  disposition  of  the  troops,  and  after  he  left 
I  slept  for  about  an  hour  and  woke  up  half  frozen;   so  did  the 
rounds  to  inspect  the  outposts  and  sat  by  a  fire  until  I  was 
thawed  out.     I  did  this  all  night  at  about  two-hour  intervals, 
and  managed  to  sleep  a  little  between  times.     At  eight-thirty 
in  the  morning,  having  had  no  breakfast,  I  was  told  to  prepare 
to  act  as  rear-guard  for  the  brigade  when  they  came  through 
and  in  the  meantime  to  cook  what  we  could  from  our  iron  ration. 
A  few  minutes  later  the  head  of  the  column  started  to  come 
through,  so  we  had  to  hurry  to  get  anything  to  eat.    We  man- 
aged to  fry  a  few  pieces  of  bacon  and  eat  some  hard-tack,  and 
were  ready  to  join  on  the  tail,  which  came  through  at  nine- 
thirty.     During  the  night  we  captured  eight  enemy  cavalry 
patrols,  but  aside  from  that  all  was  quiet.    We  formed  the  rear 
point  and  marched  till  noon,  when  the  main  body  halted  and 
had  a  few  minutes  to  get  a  bite  to  eat  before  they  went  into 
action.     We  were  just  far  enough  behind  to  close  in  on  them 
in  time  to  take  our  position  in  the  line  and  move  forward  with 
the  attack  which  went  nearly  five  miles  through  woods,  over 
hills  and  streams  and  anything  that  happened  to  be  in  the  way. 
It  developed  into  a  pursuit,  so  we  had  to  keep  going  ahead  just 
as  fast  as  we  could  hike,  till  about  four,  when  in  all  we  had  gone 
about  ten  miles.     The  General  then  decided  we  had  won  a 
decisive  victory  (I  never  saw  the  enemy),  and  that  we  could  go 
home  and  have  today  off.    We  came  straight  back  in,  arriving 
here  about  seven-thirty,  not  having  halted  long  enough  to  take 
our  packs  off  since  nine-thirty  in  the  morning,  having  been  up 
most  of  the  night  before,  and  with  nothing  inside  us  but  three 
slices  of  bacon  and  one  box  of  hard-tack.    I  sure  was  glad  to  see 
my  bed,  and  rolled  into  it  as  soon  as  I  got  some  beans  to  line 
my  stomach  with.    The  men  went  through  it  all  without  growl- 
ing as  much  as  they  do  during  an  ordinary  drill,  and  I  think  in 
all  we  made  a  pretty  creditable  showing.     I  have  been  eating 



and  sleeping  ever  since  we  got  back  and  feel  fine,  but  am  mighty 
glad  we  did  not  have  another  day  of  it.  Our  Company  had  the 
hardest  jobs  to  do,  and  were  the  only  ones  to  spend  the  night 
in  the  open ;  they  always  seem  to  pick  on  us. 

It  is  very  hard  to  believe  that  Christmas  is  so  near,  and  I 
have  n't  had  a  chance  to  get  the  spirit  yet.  It  makes  me 
mighty  homesick  to  think  of  the  carols  in  Boston.  Thee  said 
thee  guessed  a  quiet  life  would  never  appeal  to  me,  but  as  soon 
as  I  strike  home  it  will  take  more  than  dynamite  to  move  me, 
and  that  is  no  joke:  a  quiet  life  never  seemed  so  attractive  as 
it  does  to  all  of  us  here  now.  We  all  feel  the  same  way,  and 
when  I  come  home  I  am  coming  to  stay,  and  not  even  the 
charms  of  North  Andover  will  drag  me  away. 

We  are  going  to  have  a  Christmas  party  for  the  orphan  kids, 
and  that  with  a  big  dinner  (without  beans),  combined  with  the 
fact  that  we  have  no  drill,  makes  it  seem  like  Christmas. 

Christmas  Day,  1917. 

This  is  indeed  a  unique  Christmas  for  me,  the  first  one  I  have 
not  been  with  you,  but  in  spite  of  everything  we  have  managed 
to  make  it  seem  quite  different  from  the  routine  days.  Yester- 
day one  of  the  other  officers  and  I  got  talking  of  where  we  were 
a  year  ago,  etc.,  and  decided  that  it  would  not  be  Christmas 
without  stockings,  so  we  agreed  to  fill  each  other's,  and  after 
supper  started  out  to  do  our  shopping.  We  went  around  to  the 
different  little  stores  in  the  town  and  bought  some  sticks  of  bad 
candy,  nuts,  mandarins,  and  such  little  things,  and  managed  to 
get  quite  excited  doing  it.  The  bells  rang  last  night,  but  of 
course  there  were  no  chimes,  and  no  singing  that  I  could  hear; 
this  little  towTi  is  very  poor,  not  even  having  an  organ  in  the 
church.  I  slept  late  this  morning,  and  woke  to  find  that  it  had 
snowed  some  more  and  was  a  real,  white  Christmas.  In  my 
stocking  I  found  some  smoking  tobacco,  tooth-powder,  nuts, 
chocolate,  chewing  gum,  cigarette  papers,  and  in  the  toe  as 
always,  a  mandarin.   .   .   , 



I  have  just  been  up  to  the  Christmas  party  given  for  the  kids 
at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  where  all  less  than  twelve  years  old  were 
invited,  and  they  all  turned  up  with  their  families.  The  hut 
was  very  nicely  fixed  up,  a  great  big  Christmas  tree  filling  one 
end,  and  the  rest  decorated  with  streamers,  paper  flags,  and 
anything  that  could  be  gotten  to  add  an  air  of  festivity.  The 
tree  was  covered  with  toys  and  lit  up  with  candles,  and  there 
was  a  great  pile  of  things  under  it.  M.  le  Maire  was  present, 
all  dressed  up  like  an  Easter  egg,  and  as  he  read  the  name  each 
child  stepped  forward  and  was  given  a  toy,  some  candy,  and 
nuts.  The  kids'  eyes  were  fairly  popping  out  of  their  heads,  and 
they  were  very  cute  as  they  retired  laden  down  with  rocking 
horses,  dolls,  or  some  kind  of  game.  The  men  enjoyed  it  as  much 
as  anyone,  and  I  guess  it  was  a  better  Christmas  party  than  most 
of  the  youngsters  had  ever  seen  before.  There  was  also  a  little 
entertainment  chiefly  provided  by  a  one-lunged  piano. 

Our  eighty  year  old  landlord  has  just  been  in,  dressed  in  his 
Sunday  best,  and  was  much  pleased  to  find  our  room  a  little 
warm  and  cheered  up  by  the  fact  that  if  he  lived  long  enough 
he  might  inherit  the  stove  for  which  we  paid  the  large  sum  of 
forty  francs. 

January  10,  1018. 

And  still  the  war  goes  on.  There  is  not  much  to  write  about 
unless  I  tell  you  of  the  funeral  I  managed  yesterday.  There  was 
a  man  of  our  Company  who  died  on  the  last  manoeuvres  from 
too  much  drink,  we  think,  and  I  was  elected  to  bury  him.  I  was 
given  a  large  motor  truck,  a  fatigue  squad,  and  a  firing  squad, 
and  told  to  bury  him  in  some  indefinitely  located  cemetery. 
I  started  out  with  what  paraphernalia  I  could  get  together,  and 
our  first  stop  was  for  the  Chaplain  —  whom  I  found,  nmch  to 
my  relief,  as  I  fully  expected  to  have  to  deliver  the  funeral  ora- 
tion myself.  We  then  proceeded  on  our  way  and  found  the 
cemetery,  where  it  was  very  cold  and  snowing  hard,  and  of  course 
the  ground  was  frozen  and  difficult  to  dig;  but  after  about  four 
hours  we  were  ready,  and  the  Chaplain  read  the  service  while 



we  all  nearly  froze  and  the  firing  squad  were  so  cold  that  I 
was  afraid  they  would  shoot  me  by  mistake.  But  we  finally 
did  get  through  without  any  mishap,  though  it  took  all  day  to 
do  it. 

Today  I  spent  four  hours  in  the  morning  and  two  in  the 
afternoon  lecturing  to  my  platoon  in  a  cold,  dark  billet,  and 
believe  me  it  was  a  strain  both  for  the  men  and  for  me.  If  I 
have  to  do  it  again  tomorrow,  I  think  I  shall  have  to  read  the 
Bible  to  them. 

I  have  had  several  [Christmas]  boxes,  also  a  big  bunch  of 
October  and  November  letters  and  some  pictures,  which  are 
quite  the  best  things  I  have  gotten.  It  is  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  the  world  to  get  letters,  and  I  have  been  reading  and 
re-reading  them  ever  since  they  came.  Do  keep  it  up.  Well, 
*'bon  soir,"  it  is  almost  seven-thirty,  and  I  must  get  to  bed  be- 
fore my  candle  burns  out;  it  is  my  last.    Lots  and  lots  of  love. 

February  3. 

I  have  just  gotten  a  new  job,  and  am  now  assistant  fire-chief 
of  the  town,  and  we  had  a  fire  drill  the  other  day  that  was  a 
perfect  scream.  L  Company  is  billeted  near  the  fire  station,  so 
we  are  the  company  to  man  the  engine  in  case  of  fire.  The 
building  in  which  the  engine  is  quartered  has  three  doors,  one 
marked  "Mairie,"  the  next  "Ecole,"  and  the  third  "Pompe  et 
Incendie";  and  it  is  the  last  we  are  chiefly  interested  in.  We 
decided  to  have  a  drill,  so  after  some  difficulty  managed  to  get 
into  the  fire-house,  which  was  inhabited  by  a  large  number  of 
rabbits,  making  added  complications  because  their  boxes  were 
arranged  so  as  to  make  it  almost  impossible  to  get  the  engine 
out;  also  we  realized  that  if  any  of  them  got  away  we  would 
have  to  pay  huge  sums  of  money,  so  when  I  put  my  section 
through  drill  I  detailed  one  man  to  fix  bayonets  and  allow  no 
rabbit  to  escape,  and  that  was  his  entire  job.  The  next  thing 
was  to  get  the  engine  out.  It  is  an  old  hand  pump  made  in 
1852,  mounted  on  a  two-wheeled  cart  to  be  pulled  by  six  men 



whom  I  got,  together  with  one  man  for  each  bucket  to  form 
behind,  push,  and  be  generally  useful. 

After  getting  organized,  we  decided  there  was  a  fire  down  the 
street,  so  we  started  lickety-split,  everyone  yelling  and  the  men 
waving  the  buckets  over  their  heads.  It  was  a  regular  picnic 
for  them,  and  the  entire  French  population  turned  out  to  watch. 
The  hose  is  made  of  leather,  riveted  together,  and  about  one 
hundred  feet  long;  the  piece  that  runs  from  the  pump  to  the 
water  is  about  twenty  feet  long  and  provided  with  a  basket  to 
prevent  its  sucking  up  mud,  etc.  When  we  got  to  the  place  we 
slid  the  pump  off  the  truck,  and  simulated  putting  it  into  the 
water.  At  this  moment  M.  le  Maire  arrived  on  the  scene  in  a 
state  of  great  excitement,  saying  that  it  was  no  fair  having  fires 
in  the  winter  because  the  engine  would  freeze;  and  in  fact  we 
found  when  we  started  to  work  the  pump  that  it  was  already 
frozen.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  department  is  efficient  and 
up  to  date;  but  there  are  several  drawbacks,  one  of  which  is 
that  there  is  only  one  stream  running  through  the  town,  beside 
which  there  is  no  other  water;  so  if  there  is  a  fire,  the  building 
must  be  moved  without  delay  to  a  point  within  one  hundred 
feet  of  the  stream.  The  sentinel  guarding  the  rabbits  was  the 
cause  of  some  priceless  remarks  by  the  men. 

February  4. 

We  have  been  doing  some  camouflaging,  and  my  platoon 
won  the  "brown  derby,"  so  I  have  decided  I  am  some  landscape 
gardener.  An  Irishman  who  used  to  be  a  gardener  did  most  of 
the  work,  and  then  borrowed  twenty  francs  from  me.  They  are 
a  funny  crowd;  I  have  loaned  out  over  three  hundred  francs  to 
men  in  the  Company  and  none  of  them  have  more  than  twenty. 
As  soon  as  pay-day  comes  around,  they  pay  it  back,  and  then 
about  a  week  later  borrow  some  more. 

I  will  write  again  as  soon  as  I  can,  so  don't  fret.  It's  a  queer 
game,  but  we  all  must  play  it  and  pretend  we  like  it.  Take 
things  as   they  come,   and  they  usually  come   much  better. 



That's  what  is  going  to  win  for  us,  and  the  better  we  do  our 
own  little  jobs,  the  sooner  the  whole  business  will  be  over. 

In  February  there  were  happy  meetings,  with  his  sister 
on  leave  from  her  Y,  M.  C.  A.  work  in  France,  and  with 
friends.    Before  the  end  of  the  month  he  wrote: 

[St.  Am  and] 
February  28. 

Last  night  I  received  three  Sunday  Heralds,  which  took  me 
home  for  a  while;  it  seemed  very  natural  to  read  about  what 
everybody  was  doing,  how  the  war  was  going  on,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  though  there  seems  to  be  an  awful  lot  of  talk  about 
the  way  they  are  running  things.  It  is  a  very  nice  sensation  to 
see  a  paper  you  are  familiar  with,  after  the  various  assortments 
of  one  sheet  half-English,  half-French  affairs  we  get  here.  From 
all  accounts  you  must  be  having  a  very  hard  winter,  and  are 
not  much  better  off  than  we  are.  We  have  plenty  of  food,  even 
though  some  of  it  might  not  appeal  to  an  epicure.  Some  of  the 
articles  in  the  paper  hit  the  dope  pretty  straight  as  to  what  we 
are  doing,  while  others  are  of  course  perfectly  fantastic. 

Just  after  I  started  this  letter  I  was  informed  that  I  had  to 
go  on  as  Officer  of  the  Day,  which  is  rather  a  bore,  for  it  is  now 
part  of  the  O.  D.'s  job  to  verify  prisoners  every  two  hours 
during  the  night.  The  O.  D.  can  do  with  them  as  he  sees  fit,  so 
their  lives  are  not  worth  much;  I  have  just  had  them  out  dig- 
ging trenches  in  the  rain  for  two  hours,  and  they  are  getting 
off  easier  than  usual  at  that.  I  have  just  finished  reading 
"Victory"  in  spare  time;  it  is  a  great  story  and  a  pleasant 
change  for  one's  imagination. 

The  old  lady  in  whose  house  we  are  now  living  is  a  lonely  soul 
if  ever  I  saw  one.  She  is  very  tidy  and  thrifty,  and  tonight  I 
was  sitting  by  her  fire  and  noticed  something  on  either  side  of 
the  chimney.  Investigation  showed  that  she  had  hung  hams 
up  there  to  dry  and  smoke;  rather  different  from  Swift's  way 
of  doing,  but  it  seems  to  get  good  results.    She  has  a  hard  life 



these  days,  for  she  lives  in  a  room  between  ours  and  the  street. 
She  goes  to  bed  (after  putting  on  a  night-cap  and  taking  off 
her  sHppers)  under  two  large  feather  beds  at  about  eight,  and 
from  that  time  on  there  is  a  continuous  tramp  back  and  forth, 
until  about  eleven  and  starting  again  about  five-thirty,  order- 
lies, strikers,  and  ourselves.  It  never  seems  to  worry  her  in  the 
slightest,  though,  and  she  sleeps  until  about  nine.  The  sand- 
man is  on  the  job  for  fair.    Cheerio. 

Alarch  17.^ 

It  has  been  some  time  since  I  have  had  a  chance  to  write,  but 
we  are  taking  life  pretty  easy  now.  My  experiences  recently 
have  been  of  a  very  new  and  interesting  sort,  but  it  is  perfectly 
true  that  even  were  I  allowed  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to 
describe  them.  Our  men  were  splendid,  and  always  kept  keen 
and  cheerful  even  under  somewhat  trying  conditions.  It  is 
pretty  hard  to  ask  a  man  to  be  on  the  alert  for  fourteen  hours, 
standing  in  mud,  and  then  get  him  to  do  any  work  in  the  day- 
time. It  is  a  good  deal  of  a  strain  being  on  the  job  twenty-four 
hours  out  of  the  day,  but  that  is  all  made  up  for  now,  when  we 
can  sleep  to  our  heart's  content.  We  had  some  bombardments, 
which  are  indeed  very  noisy  things  and  make  you  move  around 
with  a  crook  in  your  back,  or  else  hang  on  to  the  front  of  the 
trench  as  if  you  expected  it  to  get  away  from  you.  One  very 
nasty  one  lasted  about  two  hours,  and  then  stopped  very  sud- 
denly; there  was  a  few  minutes  of  silence  that  seemed  noisier 
than  when  the  guns  were  going,  and  then,  just  as  the  sun 
started  to  come  up,  the  birds  began  to  sing  as  though  nothing 
had  happened,  and  it  made  you  feel  that  everything  was  all 
right.  The  weather  has  been  wonderful,  and  it  makes  me  want 
to  get  out  and  play  golf. 

This  afternoon  I  was  standing  out  in  front  of  my  billet  enjoy- 
ing the  sunshine,  when  a  big  whale  of  a  private  came  up  to  me, 

^  Written  at  Mandres  when  the  Company  came  back  into  reserve 
after  its  first  tour  in  the  front  line  before  Seicheprey,  with  Haydock's 
platoon  in  the  Bois  de  Carre. 



and  said,  "Sir,  may  I  have  permission  to  speak  to  the  Lieu- 
tenant? "  It  was  WalHe  Trumbull, ^  who  had  enlisted  in  an  artil- 
lery outfit  near  here!  It  was  fine  to  see  him,  and  we  had  a  good 

There  were  lots  of  rats  up  where  we  were,  and  their  moving 
around  got  a  rise  out  of  me.  There  had  been  a  rumor  that 
someone  was  in  our  line,  and  I  had  gone  to  investigate.  My 
runner  was  right  behind  me,  and  we  were  pussyfooting  down  a 
communicating  trench  when  we  heard  a  splash  which  made  us 
stop  and  listen.  I  had  my  gun  cocked,  and  started  to  snoop 
around  a  corner  when  I  heard  another  splash,  and  then  a  little 
one,  like  a  person  putting  his  foot  back  to  catch  his  balance. 
We  crouched  down  and  waited  for  about  five  minutes  for  another 
move;  we  both  felt  pretty  sure  it  was  a  rat,  but  were  not  taking 
chances.  It  turned  out  that  the  first  noise  was  a  rat,  and  also 
the  second;  the  third  was  made  by  my  stepping  on  a  long- 
handled  shovel,  which  had  made  the  noise  several  feet  away. 
We  were  on  the  edge  of  what  had  once  been  a  wood;  but  shell 
fire  had  left  nothing  but  stumps,  and  in  the  early  hours  of  the 
morning  these  said  stumps  had  a  habit  of  walking  around  and 
forming  up  in  line  in  a  most  astonishing  way;  in  fact,  we  even 
had  to  go  so  far  as  to  shoot  a  couple  of  them. 

Well,  keep  the  good  spirit  up  and  write  often. 

March  31.^ 

Three  letters  arrived  this  Easter  morning,  and  did  much  to 
make  the  day  seem  a  little  different  from  the  others.  The  bless- 
ing of  this  war  is  the  amount  of  work;  it  does  not  give  you  a 
chance  to  think  about  much  else,  and  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
satisfaction  to  seeing  things  done  and  in  knowing  you  are  hold- 
ing a  part  of  the  line,  small  and  unimportant  as  it  may  be. 

One's  ideas  of  luxury  do  change:  today,  for  instance,  instead 
of  getting  dressed  up  in  top-hat  and  cutaway  and  going  to 

'  Walter  H.  Trumbull,  Jr.,  a  schoolmate  at  Middlesex,  a  college 
mate  at  Harvard  ('15),  and  business  mate  with  The  Russell  Company. 

*  Written  from  the  support  position  in  front  of  Beaumont  and  be- 
hind Seicheprey. 



church  as  I  did  a  year  ago,  I  washed  my  face  in  rainwater, 
slopped  out  through  the  rain,  and  bossed  a  working  party.  I 
think  I  shall  see  some  of  that  part  of  the  world  that  I  got  familiar 
with  last  fall,  only  under  a  little  different  circumstances  this 
time.  I  have  just  slept  twenty-one  hours  and  had  a  swell  turkey 
dinner  that  made  me  want  to  sleep  twenty-one  more.  It  might 
interest  you  to  know  that  this  month  I  have  had  my  clothes 
off  twice  long  enough  to  take  a  bath,  and  can  see  no  prospect 
of  ever  getting  them  off  again.  The  other  night,  during  a  little 
excitement,  some  M.  G.'s  were  on  the  job,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  had  the  experience  of  hitting  the  dirt  by  reflex  action; 
the  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  flat  on  my  face  in  a  mud  puddle, 
which  in  itself  is  proof  that  I  did  not  do  it  consciously,  for  I  was 
wet  the  rest  of  the  night. 

April  4-* 
We  have  been  having  a  rather  strenuous  but  interesting  time, 
something  like  what  you  see  pictures  of  and  read  about,  only 
the  magazines  have  cut  a  good  deal  of  the  stuff  that  is  the  chief 
cause  of  comment  for  all  of  us  here;  our  chief  questions  are:  — 
How  much  further?  —  when  do  we  eat?  —  will  we  get  a  chance 
to  sleep? 

This  is  a  wonderful  country  when  the  sun  shines,  especially 
at  this  time  of  year  when  things  are  just  beginning  to  come  out 
a  little.  We  live  on  what  we  carry,  so  you  can  imagine  what  that 
is.  I  have  to  smile  when  I  think  of  the  kicking  I  have  done  about 
loads  carried  in  the  past,  yet  there  is  a  fascination  to  the  whole 
thing  that  I  have  never  experienced  before,  and  yet  it  is  sur- 
prising how  much  it  all  seems  like  manoeuvres.  I  wish  I  could 
describe  the  doings  of  the  last  week  to  you,  as  they  have  been 
most  enlightening,  but  I  shall  have  to  depend  on  my  memory 
after  I  get  home.  It  is  a  big  time,  but  thank  God  it  has  started, 
for  it  may  end  sometime  now.  By  the  time  this  reaches  you, 
you  will  probably  have  read  of  our  doings,  as  only  the  American 
papers  can  describe  them.    We  have  the  regimental  band  and 

1  Written  from  Bois  I'Eveque,  a  cantonment  near  Toul. 



colors  for  the  first  time  in  a  good  many  weeks,  and  both  seem 
to  help  put  us  on  our  toes.  The  esprit  in  our  company  has 
always  been  very  good,  and  now  it  is  noticeable  both  for  regi- 
ment and  division;  the  men  are  certainly  a  splendid  lot,  and 
get  better  with  time. 

Speaking  of  time,  when  this  letter  reaches  thee  I  will  have 
about  finished  my  first  year  in  the  army  and  be  entitled  to  wear 
a  gold  chevron  on  my  lower  left  sleeve  for  six  months'  service 
in  the  advanced  zone;  does  n't  that  seem  queer?  me  with  a 
service  stripe  and  still  a  rookie?  At  present  scraping  mud  off 
clothes  with  a  tin  French  pen-knife  takes  more  of  our  thought 
than  what  kind  of  gold  braid  we  wull  wear.  We  Americans 
cannot  compete  with  either  the  French  or  English  on  the 
clothes  question:  we  dress  just  about  the  same  as  the  men, 
carry  the  same  and  more  junk  on  our  backs,  and  are  just  as 
dirty;  we  sometimes  try  to  be  the  other  way,  but  cannot  stand 
it  for  long.  All  hands  are  optimistic  and  think  there  is  a  chance 
of  getting  home  before  1950;  last  winter  we  thought  it  was  a 
permanent  state  over  here. 

At  the  beginning  of  April,  the  regiment  was  withdrawn 
to  Toul  for  rest.  On  the  13th  the  whole  First  Division  was 
mobilized  for  offensive  action  in  Picardy,  and  gradually 
went  forward  to  the  trenches  before  Cantigny.  It  was 
during  this  march,  according  to  a  friend  and  fellows-officer 
of  Haydock's,  Lieutenant  R.  A.  Newhall/  that  "General 
Pershing  [on  April  16,  at  Chaumont-en-Vexin]  assembled 
all  the  officers  of  the  First  Division,  and  told  them  that 
they  were  about  to  enter  a  campaign  of  real  fighting,  and 
that  it  was  up  to  them  to  set  the  pace  for  the  American 

1  Richard  Ager  Newhall,  A.M.  '14,  Ph.D.  '17;  Instructor  and  Tutor 
in  the  Department  of  History,  Government,  and  Economics,  1915-17, 
1918-19;  wounded  at  Cantigny,  and  for  forty-eight  hours  left  helpless 
in  a  shell-hole  during  the  heavy  bombardment  of  the  attack  and 



Army."  After  eight  daj^s  in  the  front  Hne,  the  28th  In- 
fantry, which  had  been  picked  to  open  the  attack  in  this 
first  American  offensive  of  the  war  was  retired  to  Maison- 
celle-Tuilerie  for  practice  of  the  assault  and  a  brief  rest. 
During  these  weeks  Haydock,  as  he  found  opportunity, 
wrote  letters,  from  which  the  following  passages  are 
taken : 

April  24.1 

It  has  been  a  long  time  since  I  last  wrote,  but  the  mails  have 
not  been  going  out,  and  there  is  not  much  that  I  can  say.  The 
weather  has  continued  to  be  fine,  and  we  are  all  feeling  fit  and 
full  of  "pep"  as  a  result.  Today  has  been  one  to  be  marked  in 
history  for  me,  — •  I  had  a  bath!  not  just  the  kind  I  would  have 
taken  at  home,  to  be  sure,  but  it  answered  the  purpose  very 
well.  I  have  not  been  inhabited,  but  the  men  are  having  a  bad 
time,  and  are  using  this  opportunity  to  boil  their  clothes. 

I  had  a  chance  not  long  ago  to  get  into  a  fairly  good-sized 
towTi  [Beauvais],  and  of  course  took  advantage  of  it,  getting  a 
ride  on  a  "Y"  truck.  I  went  with  my  intellectual  friend,-  and 
he  really  is  doing  a  good  bit  to  educate  me;  history  is  his 
specialty,  and  as  he  has  been  to  many  of  these  places  before 
he  knows  all  about  them  and  what  has  happened  there  as  well 
as  the  date.  It  has  made  all  the  difference  to  me  to  have  some- 
one to  play  around  with.  We  saw  all  of  the  sights  and  then 
decided  to  go  in  quest  of  tea.  On  inquiring,  we  were  informed 
that  the  "Smith  College  Unit"  would  not  only  feed  us,  but  that 
we  would  be  entertained  by  charming  American  girls;  so  around 
we  went,  and  were  smoked  and  fed  and  talked  at  a  mile  a 
minute.  They  are  a  Red  Cross  unit  and  had  a  red-hot  story  to 
tell.  They  gave  us  a  lot  of  news  we  were  glad  to  get,  and  we 
even  went  so  far  as  to  take  two  of  them  out  to  dinner;  and  alto- 
gether we  had  a  most  enjoyable  time.    You  can  say  what  you 

1  Written  from  Velennes,  where  the  Company  stopped  for  about  a 
week  in  the  course  of  the  march  northward  to  Cantiguy. 

2  Lieutenant  Newhall. 



like  about  this  being  no  place  for  women;  perhaps  in  many- 
ways  it  is  not,  but  I  know  one  thing  for  sure,  and  that  is  that 
we  are  all  darn  glad  to  see  them,  and  seldom  pass  up  a  chance  to 
talk  to  them,  even  if  it  is  only  to  say  hello.  There  is  a  noticeable 
"camaraderie''  among  all  the  people  in  this  country  who  can 
speak  English;  it  goes  all  the  way  from  a  British  Tommy  to  a 
cross  red  nurse,  and  is  one  of  the  things  I  should  like  to  see 
survive  the  war,  but  of  course  it  won't.  When  you  are  continu- 
ally surrounded  by  French,  anyone  who  can  "parler"  so  you 
can  understand  them  is  a  long-lost  friend. 

I  wish  thee  could  see  some  of  the  things  I  have  been  seeing, 
not  all,  to  be  sure,  but  there  are  some  wonderful  old  houses  and 
gardens,  and  landscapes  that  make  me  feel  as  though  I  were  in 
a  dream.  It's  a  queer  world  and  a  crazy  war,  but  everybody 
seems  to  have  a  pretty  good  time  in  spite  of  it,  so  cheerio. 

April  28. 

Here  it  is  Sunday  again;    I  would  not  have  known  it,  but 
somebody  told  me,  and  the  church-bells  are  ringing.     It  is  a 
gloomy  sort  of  a  day,  the  kind  that  makes  one  want  to  stay  in 
bed;  if  at  home,  I  should  be  wondering  whether  to  take  a  chance 
on  getting  wet  and  play  golf,  or  just  to  loaf  around  and  do  noth- 
ing.   One  advantage  of  being  in  the  Army  is  that  you  do  not 
have  to  decide  which  fifteen  you  will  play  with,  as  they  nearly 
always  decide  for  you  that  you  will  be  with  the  other  fifteen. 
You  can't  stop  to  argue,  all  you  can  do  is  to  cuss.   The  Army  is 
certainly  a  funny  animal.    We  breeze  along  the  road,  come  to  a 
perfectly  innocent  little  town  where  we  are  to  stay,  and  then 
a  mighty  interesting  metamorphosis  takes  place.    For  instance: 
I  locate  my  non-com  who  has  gone  ahead,  and  he  shows  me 
where  my  platoon  is  to  be  billeted.    It  is  a  typical  farm-yard 
in  the  town;   that  is,  you  go  in  from  the  street  through  a  large 
door  and  find  yourself  in  a  quadrangle  which  is  the  barnyard; 
the  front  side  is  the  house,  the  back  the  barn,  and  to  the  right 
and  left  chicken-houses,  rabbit-pens,  hay  in  sheds,  etc.,  while  in 



the  centre  is  a  charming  pool  of  green  slime,  and  next  to  this 
the  well.  The  platoon  halts  while  I  investigate;  on  the  door 
is  written  "40  men"  and  I  find  a  pile  of  straw  in  the  barn,  so  all 
is  "jake."  The  men  come  in  with  a  rush  and  scatter  to  the 
four  winds  to  get  the  best  bunk;  ten  minutes  later  they  are  all 
settled  and  looking  the  place  over  as  if  they  owned  it.  They 
have  to  chase  the  ducks  and  chickens  out  of  their  billets,  and 
sometimes  said  poultry  gets  in  the  way  and  there  is  a  casualty; 
result:  claim,  interpreter,  much  talking  with  the  hands  and 
loud  cries,  ending  up  by  my  having  to  get  20,000  francs  from 
the  platoon  to  pay  for  one  old  hen.  Soon  after  the  men  get 
settled,  it  is  decided  to  have  the  rolling  kitchen  there;  so  in  it 
comes,  looking  like  a  primitive  fire-engine,  with  its  various 
wagons.  They  are  pushed  into  place,  and  line  begins  to  form 
for  chow,  and  if  all  goes  well  they  are  getting  it  in  an  hour  after 
we  arrive.  As  a  rule  it  is  stew  or  slum,  and  what  the  men  call 
"deep  sea,"  which  if  thee  saw  thee  would  know  why,  but  we 
sure  do  put  it  away.  We  have  all  learned  a  lot  of  things  and 
the  result  is  a  very  marked  improvement  and  more  comfort  for 
all  concerned. 

I  have  had  a  chance  to  read  some  magazines,  and  note  with 
interest  the  appearance  of  stories  of  the  "American  front"; 
they  are  very  amusing,  but  not  nearly  as  funny  as  the  news- 
paper accounts  of  our  doings.  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that 
Professor  Channing,  of  Cambridge,  has  the  right  idea  when  he 
puts  a  not  before  all  things  recorded  in  history.  I  am  afraid 
I  lack  the  imagination  necessary  to  make  a  real  story  out  of 

some  of  the  things  I  have  seen. 

May  5. 

Sunday  again,  and  rest  this  time.  Passage  of  time  means 
nothing  now;  a  week  goes  by  before  it  starts.  I  have  just  been 
looking  over  a  Literary  Digest  of  March  23d  and  saw  in  it  a 
soldier  defined  as  a  man  who  has  an  "insatiable  desire  to  go 
anywhere  else,"  and  if  this  is  true,  I  think  most  of  us  are  pretty 
good  soldiers.    It's  funny,  no  matter  where  we  are,  we  wish  we 



were  somewhere  else;  if  at  the  front,  we  want  to  get  back  to 
rest,  and  vice  versa,  but  I  have  been  less  restless  here  than  in  most 
places,  perhaps  because  I  have  a  bed  to  sleep  on. 

I  am  now  in  charge  of  our  officers'  mess,  which  consists  in  try- 
ing to  find  something  to  eat  besides  the  issue,  which  is  not  often 
possible,  though  now  and  then  we  are  able  to  get  a  few  eggs 
and  vegetables,  but  the  place  is  pretty  well  cleaned  out  of  every- 
body but  soldiers.  We  were  to  have  late  breakfast  today,  and 
Newhall  and  I  on  going  to  bed  decided  that  they  would  surely 
pull  an  "alert"  or  something  else,  just  to  get  us  out.  Sure 
enough,  soon  after  we  were  in  bed  we  heard  a  scurry  in  the 
street,  the  call  to  arms,  and  then  the  usual  rustle  to  get  things 
right  quickly.  It  is  a  form  of  drill  that  always  amuses  me,  and 
is  something  like  what  my  old  idea  of  war  was  like,  —  running 
around  in  the  dark,  getting  out  ammunition,  rations,  etc.,  and 
then  dropping  into  place.  It  adds  to  the  interest  not  to  know 
whether  it  is  drill  or  not. 

May  12. 

Yesterday  I  celebrated  my  first  anniversary  in  the  Army  by 
going  into  a  good-sized  town  and  taking  a  bath,  and  the  trip 
was  a  little  variety  and  most  enjoyable.  I  started  out  with  the 
captain,  and  walked  a  mile  or  so  to  a  nearby  town  on  the  main 
road,  and  lay  in  wait  for  a  ride;  of  course  all  traffic  was  going 
the  wrong  way,  and  it  began  to  look  as  though  we  might  get 
fooled;  but  presently  a  real  car  came  steaming  along  with  a 
couple  of  Frenchmen  in  it  and  looking  as  though   there  was 

room  for  two  more,  so  I  shouted  "B ?"  at  them,  much  as 

the  little  muckers  shout  "Extra  ticket,  mister?"  outside  the 
Stadium.  The  car  hauled  up  though,  so  we  got  in  and  rode  to 
our  destination  in  real  style,  a  most  enjoyable  ride,  though  it 
made  me  a  bit  dizzy  to  see  the  landscape  go  by  so  fast.  On 
arrival,  my  first  objective  was  a  dry-goods  store,  and  I  found 
one  about  like  Jimmy  Jones',  and  then  tried  to  convey  the  idea 
to  an  old  woman  that  I  wanted  some  underclothes.    It  did  n't 



get  by  at  all,  however,  and  the  words  were  not  in  my  little 
dictionary;  but  then  I  found  Jimmy  himself,  who  after  a  little 
scouting  found  some  in  a  box,  and  we  got  along  splendidly. 

The  next,  or  second,  objective  (in  terms  of  French  warfare) 
was  the  bath-house.  I  crashed  around  and  told  the  old  woman 
I  desired  a  bath.  She  gave  me  a  look,  and  said  "om""  —  very 
intelligent  at  times,  these  French.  She  then  gave  me  a  card 
with  "12"  on  it,  and  told  me  to  sit  down;  after  waiting  awhile 
I  grew  a  bit  restless,  so  she  showed  me  into  the  courtyard,  and 
told  me  to  look  at  the  fountain  and  the  pretty  flowers.  Finally 
my  turn  came,  and  I  bought  towels  and  soap,  and  was  shown 
to  my  compartment  in  which  was  a  large  tin  bath-tub  full  of 
hot  water.  I  got  aboard,  and  afterwards,  in  my  newly-purchased 
clothes,  felt  like  a  prince. 

It  is  a  wonderful  feeling  to  get  where  there  are  other  people 
than  those  in  the  Army.  I  had  tea  at  a  nice  hotel,  and  amused 
myself  by  watching  the  crowd.  Then,  after  a  good  dinner,  came 
the  problem  of  getting  back  some  thirty  odd  kilos,  before  our 
passes  ran  out.  We  got  a  flivver  ambulance,  A.  R.  C,  with 
donor's  name  on  outside,  and  started  back.  Of  course  it  had  to 
get  running  on  one  lung,  and  we  stopped  several  times  for  re- 
pairs; but  it  carried  us  more  than  half  way,  after  which  we 
picked  up  with  a  R.  C.  truck  that  took  us  almost  in. 

The  April  number  of  the  Atlantic  came  yesterday,  and  was 
most  welcome.  We  haven't  yet  gotten  over  the  idea  that 
because  we  are  at  war  we  must  always  be  just  as  uncomfortable 
as  we  can,  do  things  in  the  least  sensible  way,  and  never  act 
naturally.  I  think  we  are  beginning  to  get  nearer  rock  bottom, 
though,  and  do  what  has  to  be  done  in  the  quickest  and  best 
way,  and  then  rest  when  we  get  through.  They  give  us  gold 
service  stripes,  as  if  the  wearing  of  them  proved  that  we  were 
soldiers.  I  enclose  mine,  but  will  not  wear  one  until  I  have  done 
a  little  more  than  chase  Indians. 

This  is  "Mother's  Day,"  and  I  am  writing  "Mother's  Letter" 
on  the  envelope  because  they  say  it  will  go  faster,  but  don't 



think  that  I  have  to  have  a  special  day  set  aside  to  think  of 

Two  days  before  Haydock's  death,  when  his  regiment 
had  completed  its  practice  for  the  attack  at  Cantigny, 
he  wrote: 

May  m.^ 
Everything  "  jake  "  and  back  for  a  bit  of  a  rest  away  from  the 
everlasting  racket.  Things  are  very  different  this  time.  These 
long  days  and  short  nights  make  a  big  difference  in  the  war.  We 
had  wonderful,  clear  days,  but  very  hot  about  noon;  the  nights 
were  cool  and  also  very  bright,  which,  I  may  state,  added  con- 
siderable interest.  All  the  time  it  was  light  we  would  crawl 
into  our  holes,  sleep  and  try  not  to  be  bored;  I  was  reduced  to 
reading  Shakespeare  and  racing  beetles  for  amusement.  At 
night  we  were,  of  course,  very  busy  with  so  many  things  to  be 
done  and  so  few  hours  to  do  them  in;  also  Fritz  got  very  rude 
at  times  and  would  interrupt  us. 

I  think  the  most  exciting  thing  I  have  done  so  far  was  getting 
the  chow  in.  It  was  brought  to  a  certain  place  at  a  certain  time, 
and  we  carried  it  in.  The  first  night  I  was  shown  a  spot  on  the 
map  and  told  to  take  the  carrying  party  there;  I  had  never  been 
over  the  route,  but  took  a  compass  bearing  and  went  to  it.  The 
country  was  much  the  same  as  that  around  Middlesex,  and  we 
had  to  go  about  as  far  as  from  the  School  to  Concord,  across 
country  and  avoiding  certain  shelled  areas  such  as  corners  of 
woods,  little  valleys,  etc.  If  we  got  lost  or  did  n't  get  through, 
we  were  out  of  luck  for  twenty -four  hours,  and  so  were  many 
others;  but  we  did  get  through,  and  got  the  chow  in  every  time, 
although  the  returning  party  was  on  several  occasions  smaller. 
I  was  pretty  lucky  every  time  I  went.  We  would  be  going  along 
perfectly  peacefully,  listening  to  the  nightingales,  when  all  of 
a  sudden  there  would  be  a  whizz  and  a  bang  (we  were  usually 

*  Written  from  Maisoncelle  after  the  return  of  the  battalion  from 
the  trenches  before  Cantigny  to  practise  the  attack  which  took  place 
on  May  28. 



on  our  stomachs  by  the  time  the  bang  came),  and  we  would  see 
flashes  all  along  a  certain  place,  and  would  thereupon  decide 
that  that  was  an  unhealthy  spot  and  carefully  avoid  it.  It's  a 
great  game,  trying  to  outguess  Fritz.  He  tries  to  get  our  habits 
and  routes,  and  we  try  to  get  his;  we  find  he  shells  a  certain 
place  at  a  certain  time  pretty  regularly,  so  we  avoid  that  place. 
We  went  slightly  different  routes  and  at  slightly  different  times, 
trying  to  keep  one  jump  ahead  of  him.  You  get  up  out  of  the 
shelled  area  and  then  you  have  the  M.  G.'s  to  dodge;  they  are 
nasty,  because  you  have  no  warning.  It's  a  long  pull  to  the 
front  line,  and,  as  the  communicating  trench  is  being  worked  on, 
you  must  go  over  the  top  all  the  way.  You  break  up  into  small 
parties,  and  use  all  the  cover  you  can  find,  and  have  no  trouble 
making  the  men  keep  quiet  or  do  what  you  tell  them;  you  get 
down,  come  back,  check  up  on  your  party,  and  heave  a  sigh  of 
relief.  I  thought  at  first  we  would  all  come  back  hump-backs, 
but  we  soon  learned  the  different  noises  and  got  over  wasting 
energy;  but  as  divers  all  my  platoon  go  in  Class  A.  It  is  aston- 
ishing how  quickly  one  can  discover  and  get  into  a  small  hole 
or  ditch  when  occasion  demands.  I  have  seen  my  entire  platoon, 
self  included,  disappear  off  the  face  of  the  earth  in  a  plowed 
field,  and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell.  We  also  had  some 
practical  experience  in  food  conservation,  and  I  washed,  shaved, 
and  drank  quite  comfortably  out  of  one  canteen  of  water  in 
twenty-four  hours.  It  is  encouraging,  for  I  think  we  may  learn 
to  be  soldiers  in  spite  of  ourselves. 

Lots  of  funny  things  happen,  for  instance:  When  we  were 
making  a  relief  at  rather  a  ticklish  time,  we  were  moving  along 
the  edge  of  a  very  pretty  little  wood  on  a  wonderful,  clear, 
moonlight  night,  and  just  as  we  were  getting  where  we  could 
breathe  more  freely,  a  nightingale,  the  first  one  I  had  ever 
heard,  began  to  sing  for  all  he  was  worth,  as  if  to  tell  us  there 
was  nothing  to  worry  about.  I  used  to  pass  that  place  nearly 
every  night  and  hear  him,  and  it  made  me  feel  as  though  we 
were  sure  enough  a  bunch  of  fools. 



We  got  here  after  a  long,  hard,  all-night  pull,  and  were 
greeted  by  a  hot  meal,  which  is  a  luxury  in  itself,  and  a  big 
batch  of  mail  with  letters  from  all  the  family  and  Aunt  Sally. 
I  read  them  all,  and  then  turned  in  for  a  wonderful  all-day 
sleep,  then  hot  supper  and  an  all-night  sleep;  so  things  are  not 
nearly  as  bad  as  they  might  be.  The  last  hitch  taught  me  a  lot 
about  human  nature,  and  my  conclusions  are  that  the  average 
mortal  is  a  pretty  good  umbrie,  and  that  the  bad  eggs  are  not 
as  numerous  as  I  had  often  supposed. 

This  is  an  awful  lot  of  talk,  but  never  mind,  I  had  a  good 
time  writing  it.  Don't  take  it  seriously;  'tis  n't  worth  while, 
and  it's  much  more  fun  not  to. 

On  the  night  of  May  27-28,  the  28th  Infantry  took  its 
place  in  the  trenches  for  the  attack  on  Cantigny;  and 
at  6.4o  in  the  morning  of  the  28th  went  over  the  top. 
Haydock  was  in  command  of  the  1st  platoon,  which  had 
reached  the  first  line  of  the  German  position  and  was  clear- 
ing out  a  trench  when  he  was  shot  and  instantly  killed 
w^hile  trying  to  place  and  silence  a  machine  gun  that  w^as 
interrupting  the  progress  of  the  operation.  To  Haydock's 
regiment  alone  the  cost  of  the  demonstration  at  Cantigny 
that  the  American  Army  had  entered  the  fight  to  good 
purpose  was  a  loss  of  17  officers  and  304  men  killed,  33 
officers  and  728  men  wounded,  and  12  men  missing.  For 
its  behavior  in  that  engagement  it  was  cited  in  Orders 
November  24,  1918,  by  Marshal  Petain  and  decorated 
with  the  green  shoulder  loop  of  "Za  Fourragere." 

Haydock  was  buried  w^here  he  fell.  At  a  later  day  his 
body  was  found  and  removed  to  the  American  cemetery 
at  Villers-Tournelle,  near  Cantigny.  The  official  recog- 
nition of  his  service  took  the  following  form: 




Headquarters  First  Division, 

American  Expeditionary  Forces, 
June  15,  1918. 
General  Order  No.  26. 

The  Division  Commander  cites  the  following  officers  and  men 
of  the  28th  Infantry  for  conspicuous  gallantry  in  connection  with 
the  capture  and  defense  of  Cantigny,  May  27-31st,  1918: 

First  Lieutenant  George  G.  Haydock,  U.  S.  R.,  28th  Infantry, 
displayed  qualities  of  coolness  and  gallantry  which  inspired  his 
whole  platoon;  he  was  killed  while  attempting,  almost  single- 
handed,  to  take  a  machine  gun. 

By  Command  of  Major  General  Bullard 


Major,  F.  A.,  N.  A. 

Division  Adjutant. 

From  soldiers  under  his  command  came  many  expres- 
sions of  the  admiration  and  affection  in  which  he  was  held. 
"Lieutenant  Haydock,"  wrote  one  of  them,  "was  the 
most  popular  officer  in  our  company.  The  men  in  our 
platoon  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  him.  Many 
times  while  in  the  trenches  he  has  shared  his  tobacco  with 
enlisted  men  who  were  not  quite  as  lucky  in  getting  a 
supply.  I  have  even  known  of  his  taking  off  his  last  pair 
of  dry  socks  and  giving  them  to  one  of  the  men  who  had 
gotten  his  feet  wet."  Another  member  of  his  platoon  has 
written : 

Lieutenant  Haydock  was  assigned  to  Co.  L,  28th  Infantry, 
after  our  landing  in  France.  At  St.  Amand  he  joined  us.  He 
was  an  excellent  drillmaster,  and  also  an  excellent  man.  He 
was  considered  one  of  the  best  bayonet  experts  in  the  A.  E.  F. 
I  was  in  his  platoon  from  the  time  he  joined  the  company  until 



his  death.  I  went  into  the  trenches  with  him,  March  7,  in  the 
Toul  sector.  It  was  at  this  place  that  he  won  the  highest  re- 
spect of  every  man  in  the  platoon  which  he  commanded,  it 
being  the  first.  In  this  sector  it  was  very  trying,  owing  to  the 
winter  and  the  severe  weather  and  the  long  nights,  almost 

Lieutenant  Haydock  never  asked  a  man  to  do  a  thing  or  take 
a  chance  that  he  would  n't  do  or  take  himself.  But  when  the 
machine  guns  were  in  action  against  us,  he  would  hold  his  hand 
above  the  parapet,  and  if  they  were  not  near  enough  to  hit  his 
hand,  he  would  rise  up  and  look  into  "No  Man's  Land."  He 
never  became  excited,  but  was  always  calm.  After  five  days 
and  nights  of  this  hardship  we  were  relieved  with  less  casualties 
than  the  other  three  platoons.  He  became  popular  throughout 
the  entire  company,  and  from  that  time  on  was  looked  upon  as 
a  fearless  man. 

From  this  sector  we  went  to  Cantigny,  took  the  town  and 
held  it.  As  we  were  advancing  on  the  morning  of  May  28th, 
we  came  to  a  halt.  The  lieutenant  walked  from  one  end  of  the 
platoon  to  the  other,  cautioning  repeatedly,  "Men,  keep  lower 
for  your  own  sakes."  They  replied,  "Lieutenant,  you  keep  low. 
They  will  get  you."  The  last  words  he  spoke  were,  "They  can't 
kill  me."  He  was  hit  by  a  machine-gun  bullet,  and  died  in- 
stantly.   He  was  buried  that  night  close  to  where  he  fell. 

The  friends  he  made  in  school,  college,  business,  and 
the  Army  spoke,  in  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  for  the  deep  im- 
pression his  life  had  made  upon  them. 

One  of  them,  Henry  Oilman  Nichols,  a  classmate  in 
college,  endowed  in  his  memory  a  bed  in  the  American 
Hospital  at  Neuilly  for  the  duration  of  the  war.  A  brief 
passage  from  a  letter  written  by  another  friend  at  Har- 
vard, who  was  also  a  comrade  overseas,  provides  the  words 
which  may  speak  for  them  all: 



Never  in  all  my  experiences  with  officers  have  I  met  such  a 
wonderful  personality  and  disposition  as  George  had;  no  matter 
what  the  conditions  were,  he  was  everlastingly  cheerful,  always 
the  most  congenial,  and  always  the  most  appreciated  man  we 
ever  had.  No  situation  ever  got  the  best  of  him,  and  there  was 
never  a  situation  that  he  would  n't  laugh  at;  this  last  is  the 
greatest  thing  I  can  say  in  the  life  we  led.  His  remarkable 
sense  of  humor  not  only  pulled  him  through  all  those  weeks  but 
pulled  everyone  else  through  who  came  in  contact  with  him. 
A  sense  of  humor  under  those  conditions  is  far  more  than  a 
literal  translation  of  the  words;  it  means  the  greatest  possible 
amount  of  perseverance,  nerve,  loyalty,  and  ability.  It  means 
a  big  mind  with  a  broad  outlook. 



Class  of  1910 

Dn  Armistice  Sunday,  November  9,  1919,  in  the 
Cathedral  of  the  Incarnation  at  Baltimore,  Maryland,  a 
tablet  was  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Lieutenant  George 
Buchanan  Redwood.  The  final  words  of  its  inscription, 
"A  Crusader  Blameless  and  Without  Fear,"  may  well  be 
placed  at  the  forefront  of  any  attempt  to  present  the 



character  and  record  of  the  man  it  commemorates.  With 
these  words  should  be  joined  a  few  others,  from  an  editorial 
that  appeared  in  the  Baltimore  Sun,  when  the  news  of  his 
death  was  received:  "At  thirty  he  has  passed  away  with 
a  record  which  few  men  twice  his  age  can  equal.  And  the 
record  is  peculiarlj^  beautiful,  inspiring,  and  touching,  even 
to  this  day  when  heroism  has  become  a  commonplace  of 
daily  life.  It  appeals  to  us  especially  not  merely  because 
he  died  in  battle,  not  merely  because  he  showed  a  courage 
that  never  flinched,  but  because  there  was  behind  and  in 
it  all  the  rare  spirit  of  knighthood  at  its  best,  of  a  loving 
and  lofty  self-sacrifice  that  made  this  war  to  him  almost 
a  sacrament,  and  made  peril  in  a  great  cause  almost  a 
religious  rite." 

George  Redwood  was  born  in  Baltimore,  September  30, 
1888,  the  elder  of  the  two  sons  of  the  late  Francis  Tazewell 
Redwood,  a  stock  broker  of  that  city,  and  Mary  Buchanan 
(Coale)  Redwood.  He  was  prepared  for  college  at  the 
Baltimore  Country  School  for  Boys.  One  of  his  school- 
mates there,  a  friend  from  childhood,  and  afterwards  a 
classmate  at  Harvard,  has  recalled,  to  Redwood's  mother, 
the  interchange  of  nursery  visits  between  the  two  boys: 
"I  preferred  visiting  at  your  house,  because  George  had 
such  wonderful  soldiers,  forts,  etc.  How  striking  to  look 
back  and  realize  that  all  his  early  interest  was  in  soldiers! 
He  was  the  only  boy  I  ever  knew  whose  main  interest  was 
almost  exclusively  warfare."  Commenting  upon  Red- 
wood's military  interest,  his  friend,  J.  G.  D.  Paul  (Har- 
vard, '08),  has  more  recently  written: 

This  preoccupation  was,  to  be  sure,  only  a  manifestation  of 
the  fundamental  elements  of  Redwood's  character,  which,  in 



their  blending,  seemed  to  so  many  of  his  friends  a  fitter  expres- 
sion of  the  spirit  of  the  crusading  Middle  Ages  than  of  the  day 
in  which  we  live.  Unflinching  moral  and  physical  courage  were 
his;  a  truthfulness  knowing  no  compromise;  an  indifference  to 
the  material  standards  of  school,  college,  and  the  larger  world 
verging  on  asceticism;  a  completely  democratic  nature  which 
unlocked  to  him  the  freedom  of  unconventionality.  Taking 
into  account  the  intensity  of  his  nature,  this  last  might  have  led 
him  far  afield  had  it  not  been  for  the  ever-present  restraint  of 
his  religion  and  his  high  sense  of  honor. 

A  classmate  in  college,  the  Rev.  Floyd  W.  Tomkins,  Jr., 
wrote,  after  Redwood's  death,  a  letter  in  which  the  fol- 
lowing paragraphs  show  him  quite  manifestly  as  he  was  in 
his  undergraduate  days: 

George  was  as  fine  and  noble  a  man  as  it  has  been  my  privilege 
to  know.  Not  in  the  conventional  and  proper  way,  the  negative 
way,  the  way  in  which  so  many  of  us  succeed  because  we  know 
it  is  expected  of  us,  but  in  the  bottom-of-the-soul,  "because  I 
will"  kind  of  way.  He  was  scared  of  nothing,  neither  the  devil 
or  God;  and  he  served  God  because  he  chose  to.  .  .  .  He  just 
simply  preferred  what  was  decent  and  noble.  .  .  .  His  natural 
and  instinctive  tastes  were  for  chivalry,  and  honor  and  right. 
Some  of  us  acquire  such  tastes,  but  he  must  have  been  born  with 

For  a  few  months  in  the  autumn  of  1910,  after  graduat- 
ing from  Harvard,  spending  the  summer  abroad,  studying 
German  and  attending  the  Passion  Play  at  Oberammergau, 
Redwood  worked  in  a  broker's  office  in  Baltimore.  He 
then  became  a  reporter  on  the  Baltimore  News,  with 
which  he  remained  until  November,  1912.  Ill  health 
forced  him  to  give  up  this  position,  and  to  spend  the 
winter  of  1912-13  at  Asheville,  North  Carolina.     While 



there  he  was  confirmed  a  member  of  the  Protestant 
Episcopal  church.  This  step  was  not  a  matter  of  mere 
outward  form,  but  sealed  and  testified  to  a  spirit  of  devo- 
tion which  characterized,  to  a  degree  quite  remarkable,  his 
intrinsic  relation  to  life.  After  passing  the  following  sum- 
mer abroad  and  the  winter  of  1913-14  in  study  at  Balti- 
more, he  became  connected,  in  the  spring  of  1914,  with 
an  advertising  firm  of  that  city.  Early  in  1917  he  rejoined 
the  staff  of  the  Baltimore  News,  and  took  up  a  work 
which  gave  abundant  nourishment  to  his  keen  sense  of 
humor  and  to  his  fondness  for  eccentric  types  of  human 

In  his  work  as  a  newspaper  man  he  displayed  unusual 
qualities  of  intelligence  and  energy.  "Those  who  were 
associated  with  him  when  he  was  on  the  reportorial  staff 
of  the  News,''  wrote  a  city  editor  of  that  journal,  "know 
that  there  was  nothing  too  hard  for  him  to  tackle;  no 
duty  he  was  too  proud  to  perform;  no  hours  too  long  for 
him  to  work;  no  personal  pleasure  or  consideration  he 
would  not  sacrifice  to  his  business,  and  nothing  at  which 
he  aimed  that  he  did  not  attain,  and  attain  in  the  shortest 
possible  time,  with  the  greatest  thoroughness  and  success." 

Through  all  these  years  Redwood  was  a  close  student 
of  warfare.  In  the  summer  of  1910  he  had  learned  all 
that  he  could  about  the  German  army  and  military  system. 
Through  the  Balkan  wars  he  had  shown  a  keen  interest 
in  the  strategy  and  tactics  employed  against  the  Turks. 
When  the  general  war  came  to  Europe  it  was  only  out  of 
deference  to  his  obligations  at  home  that  he  abandoned  his 
own  desire  to  enlist  in  the  Canadian  Army  or  join  the 
French  Foreign  Legion.     Feeling  that  the  United  States 



must  one  day  bear  its  part  in  the  struggle,  he  attended 
the  Plattsburg  camp  in  1915,  after  having  thrown  him- 
self heartily  into  the  local  movement  which  resulted  in  the 
contribution  of  eighty  Maryland  men  to  the  membership 
of  that  encampment.  Again  in  1916  he  went  to  Platts- 
burg, and,  when  the  camp  of  that  summer  ended,  received 
the  commission  of  second  lieutenant  in  the  Officers'  Re- 
serve Corps  of  the  Army.  Thus  he  was  already  a  reserve 
officer  when  April,  1917,  came,  and  as  such  was  ordered, 
early  in  May,  to  the  training  camp  at  Fort  Myer.  On 
the  completion  of  his  term  of  instruction  there,  he  was 
commissioned,  August  15,  first  lieutenant  of  infantry  in 
the  Regular  Army,  and  ordered  overseas.  He  sailed  from 
New  York,  September  7.  The  opportunity  for  service  and 
heroic  action,  which  he  had  restlessly  sought,  had  come 
to  him  at  last. 

Before  leaving  the  United  States,  Redwood  knew  that 
he  was  to  be  assigned  to  the  British  Fourth  Army  School 
for  Scouting,  Sniping,  and  Observation.  Twenty  officers 
from  the  various  training  camps  in  the  United  States  were 
chosen  to  receive  the  instruction  of  this  school.  Redwood 
kept  a  diary  while  he  was  there,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
course  made  the  characteristically  modest  entry,  "Exams 
today,  mark  loo."  The  next  highest  mark  was  93.  In 
February,  1918,  he  was  assigned  to  Company  I,  28th  In- 
fantry, and  appointed  an  intelligence  officer.  In  this 
capacity  there  was  abundant  opportunity  for  him  to  con- 
tribute to  the  successful  work  of  his  regiment  and  of  the 
First  Division,  of  which  it  formed  a  part.  Early  in  1918 
the  Division  took  over  a  sector  of  the  battle  line  northeast 
of  Toul,  and  the  28th  Infantry  was  in  active  combat  with 



the  enemy  until  the  Division  was  reheved  on  April  4.  A 
week  before  this  time  Redwood  distinguished  himself  by 
the  special  act  of  valor  soon  to  be  related.  Before  and 
after  March  28,  he  wrote,  chiefly  to  his  mother,  many 
letters  —  terse  and  non-committal  even  beyond  the  re- 
quirements of  military  censorship.  The  following  pas- 
sages contrive  to  suggest  something  of  his  experiences 
and  of  the  spirit  in  which  he  met  them: 

Saturday,  October  6,  1917. 

This  afternoon,  when  our  lessons  were  over,  I  walked  to 
another  town  near  here  to  get  a  haircut,  and  I  was  an  object  of 
great  curiosity  wherever  I  passed.  If  a  full  grown  hippopotamus 
had  walked  down  the  street,  it  would  hardly  have  caused  more 
excitement.  There  was  always  a  shout  of  "American,"  and 
heads  popped  out  of  doors  and  windows  right  and  left.  They 
always  recognize  us  by  our  felt  hats,  which  are  different  from 
anything  in  either  the  French  or  British  armies,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  hats  worn  by  some  of  the  British  Colonials,  and  they 
are  creased  fore  and  aft  instead  of  peaked. 

Saturday,  October  13. 

I  attended  a  service  in  a  little  French  country  church  when  a 
number  of  children  were  receiving  their  first  communion.  The 
ceremony  was  quaint  and  picturesque,  though  I  could  under- 
stand not  so  very  much  more  than  at  the  Russian  service  in  New 
York.  The  choir  was  composed  of  three  elderly  peasants  who 
sat  in  the  rear  of  the  church  and  just  behind  my  pew.  They 
wore  knee-length  smocks,  startlingly  like  nightshirts,  over  their 
ordinary  clothes,  and  one  had  a  queer  yellow  cope  as  well.  Two 
sang  and  the  third  played  a  prodigious  brass  horn  and  spat  on 
the  floor  with  noisy  fervor  by  turns.  I  should  n't  make  fun 
of  them,  though :  the  little  church  was  well  filled  and  the  con- 
gregation devout  and  attentive.  After  the  service  the  children 
marched  forth.     Two  white-clad  girls  led,  carrying  staffs,  one 



decked  with  gold  and  white,  the  other  with  gold  and  red  tinsel. 
The  acolytes  bore  lighted  candles.  Then  came  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  newly  confirmed  children,  six  peasant  lads  of  different 
ages,  wearing  wreaths  of  white  flowers  about  their  close-cropped, 
bullet  heads,  and  an  equal  number  of  girls  in  white  dresses  and 
veils.  In  the  rear  marched  a  portly  priest  in  robes  and  behind 
him  the  three  weather-beaten  sons  of  Orpheus  in  their  robes  (de 
nuit)  also. 

Sunday,  October  1^. 

I  omitted  to  mention  a  wonderful  major  domo  who  kept  order 
during  the  service  and  marched  at  the  head  of  the  procession. 
He  wore  a  much  bedizened  coat,  epaulettes,  cocked  hat,  wide 
shoulder  belt  with  a  little  sword  and  carried  a  big  staff. 

This  morning  I  have  read  the  gospel  and  epistle  and  the  les- 
sons, took  a  walk,  and  have  been  putting  into  shape  some  of  my 

December  2,  1917. 

I  was  very  much  amused  indeed  at  the  first  page  display  of 
the  News  regarding  the  American  troops  going  up  to  the 
trenches.  I  read  that  florid  piece  of  literature  aloud  to  my  room- 
mate. Lieutenant  Morrison,  and  we  almost  laughed  ourselves 
speechless.  The  copy  reader  who  wrote  the  headlines  was  cer- 
tainly imaginative,  particularly  in  writing  of  the  "Big  75" 
which  sent  a  "great  shell"  !  !  !  A  75  is  only  a  75,  and  can't 
be  big,  nor  can  its  shell  be  possibly  more  than  75  millimetres  in 
diameter.  It  is  the  French  equivalent  of  our  old,  common  or 
field  variety  of  3-inch  gun;  the  usual  one  that  you  always  used 
to  see  in  our  mobile  artillery.  After  reading  that  I  feel  like 
telling  you  how  I  went  to  the  target  range  some  time  ago,  "drew 
my  enormous  automatic  pistol  and  sent  its  colossal  bullet 
hurtling  through  atmosphere  to  make  a  prodigious  gaping  hole 
in  the  target!" 

Sunday,  December  16. 

You  really  must  n't  trouble  to  send  along  any  more  "eats" 
after  you  get  this.    I  don't  mean  that  I  don't  enjoy  them,  but 



from  various  causes  I  judge  it  is  hardly  a  good  proposition.  I 
believe  I  mentioned  in  my  last  letter  (which  will  probably 
reach  you  about  Christmas)  that  we  get  all  the  sugar  we  want 
here,  while  I  understand  that  you  are  on  an  allowance  back  in 
the  States.  Also  we  can  buy  extras  in  the  way  of  canned  goods, 
block  sweet  chocolate  of  various  makes,  malted  milk,  Oxo 
bouillon  tablets,  etc.,  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  at  the  Commissary. 
We  can  and  do  get  more  than  is  good  for  us,  I  suppose,  and  I 
have  several  times  made  unkept  resolutions  (and  one  week  ac- 
tually made  one  I  kept)  to  limit  myself  for  various  periods  to 
what  was  provided  in  our  company  mess.  .  .  . 

OflBcers  must  certify  their  letters  also  and  go  over  the  men's. 
I  have  read  some  very  amusing  ones  from  enlisted  men  to  people 
at  home,  a  few  pathetic  and  many  intensely  human.  One  forms 
a  good  opinion  of  the  stamp  of  men  we  have  from  what  they 
write,  be  their  grammar  and  spelling  never  so  crude.  They  are 
earnest,  steady  fellows  for  the  most  part,  and  they  have  been 
making  allotments  to  mothers,  wives,  and  sweethearts,  insuring 
their  lives  and  buying  Liberty  bonds  in  a  way  that  ought  to 
make  civilians  in  the  States  sit  up  and  take  notice. 

These  comments  on  the  enlisted  man,  sympathetic  as 
they  are,  give  little  idea  of  the  remarkable  understanding 
and  affection  existing  between  Redwood  and  his  subordi- 
nates. In  a  democratic  army  like  the  American  Expedi- 
tionary Forces,  the  problem  of  winning  the  personal  loyalty 
of  the  men  in  the  ranks  without  doing  violence  to  the 
canons  of  military  etiquette  and  discipline  was  one  which 
many  officers  found  difficult  in  the  extreme.  To  Red- 
wood's complete  success  in  solving  it  many  of  his  soldiers 
have  testified  in  words  that  are  as  touching  as  they  are 
sincere.  A  young  American  woman,  serving  in  France 
with  the  Red  Cross,  wrote  to  his  mother  shortly  after  the 
attack  at  Cantigny  where  Redwood  met  his  death: 



I  find  we  have  men  here  in  the  hospital  who  knew  George  well 
and  who  say  such  beautiful  things  of  him  that  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  hear  them. 

Private  Schlossen,  who  was  in  his  company,  said  he  saw  him 
continually  in  the  last  action  and  heard  him  spoken  of  in  the 
highest  praise  by  the  men  in  his  section.  .  .  .  You  should 
have  seen  his  face  light  up  when  he  spoke  of  George.  He  said 
he  was  the  bravest  man  and  the  finest  officer  they  had  ever 
known.  From  first  to  last  he  had  been  the  most  wonderful 
example  to  his  men,  and  they  all  adored  him. 

My  other  patient,  Samuel  Ervin,  said  he  knew  George  well, 
as  he  had  been  in  the  same  company  and  had  gone  over  the  top 
with  him.  He  also  said  he  was  one  of  the  finest  men  he  had  ever 
known,  and  that  his  men  would  do  anything  for  him.  He  said 
before  going  into  action  he  always  knelt  down  to  pray;  he  was 
like  a  person  inspired;   he  did  not  know  what  fear  was. 

Another  Red  Cross  nurse,  working  in  the  barracks  at 
Pontanezen,  was  talking  with  some  members  of  a  casual 
company  made  up  of  men  from  nearly  every  branch  of 
the  service.  "A  private,  Gailband  of  the  28th  Infantry," 
she  wrote  her  brother  in  Baltimore,  "had  been  giving  me 
information  about  four  or  five  men  of  his  company  when 
suddenly  his  eye  lit  up  at  the  name  of  Lieutenant  Red- 
wood. He  grew  quite  excited  and  began  talking  so  fast 
about  him  that  I  had  to  stop  him  in  order  to  get  what  he 
had  said  written  down.  ...  It  was  really  fine  to  hear 
him  talk.  Often  the  men,  in  giving  details,  will  say  'He 
was  a  good  officer,'  but  they  don't  often  show  much 

Enthusiasm  is  certainly  not  lacking  in  Gailband's  long 
eulogy,  which  he  concludes,  in  his  own  picturesque  way, 
with  as  handsome  a  tribute  as  an  American  private  could 



well  pay  his  officer:  "He  had  an  awful  fine  reputation  in 
that  outfit,  the  best  reputation  I  ever  heard  a  man  get. 
He  was  never  one  of  these  sporty  guys,  —  he  stuck  around 
with  his  men.  You  never  would  have  known  the  differ- 
ence between  us,  except  he  wore  the  Sam  BrowTie  belt.  I 
would  like  to  have  his  mother's  address." 

If  any  further  explanation  of  this  devoted  admiration 
were  needed,  it  might  be  found  in  a  letter  written  from 
France  by  Private  Lee  Thompson  to  his  mother  in  Balti- 

"There  is  a  boy  here  named  Ballou,"  he  says,  "from 
Gloversville,  N.  Y.,  who  knew  George  Redwood  well. 
.  .  .  Every  man  had  a  good  word  for  him,  and  he  was 
not  like  an  oflScer  but  more  like  a  friend  to  them  all.  He 
would  give  away  everything  he  had  to  make  the  men  more 
comfortable,  and  actually  was  walking  around  in  old 
shoes  that  no  one  else  would  wear,  having  given  his  owti 
to  some  soldier." 

Of  all  this  quiet  self-sacrifice,  there  is  not  a  hint  in  Red- 
wood's own  letters.  On  Christmas  Day,  1917,  he  wrote  his 
mother : 

You  are  possibly  at  the  morning  service  now,  for  I  think  it  is 
about  noon  at  home.  There  must  be  an  elaborate  service  at 
Mount  Calvary,  and  they  are  carrying  in  the  procession  the 
cross  and  three  or  four  banners  including  that  with  the  picture 
of  my  friend,  Saint  George,  on  it.  I  went  to  a  service  in  the 
French  church  here.  The  church  was  n't  heated,  of  course,  so 
all  the  congregation  kept  on  their  wraps.  There  was  a  mixture 
of  French  women  in  black  cloaks,  men  in  various  clothes  and 
soldiers  in  horizon  blue,  —  and  our  own  men  in  olive  drab.  A 
nice  looking  French  captain  of  infantry  sat  in  the  pew  in  front 
of  me,  a  middle-aged  man  with  an  intelligent,  though  rather 



lined  and  brown,  face  and  a  touch  of  gray  in  his  black  moustache. 
Beside  me  sat  three  old  peasant  women,  wrinkled,  weather- 
beaten  and  devout.  I  saw  in  the  prayerbook  of  the  one  nearest 
me  "A21  commencement  etait  la  Verbe,"  the  same  as  our  own 
Gospel  for  Christmas  Day:  "In  the  beginning  was  the  Word," 
which  I  was  reading  in  the  little  Prayerbook  you  gave  me. 

As  for  Christmas  Dinner,  Uncle  Sam  remembered  us  as  well, 
if  not  better  than  he  did  on  Thanksgiving.  We  had  hot  turkey 
and  stuffing,  corn,  potatoes,  string  beans  and  peas,  with  apple 
pie,  chocolate-iced  cake,  apples  and  walnuts  for  dessert,  with 
coffee  to  drink.  All  in  our  officers'  mess  ate  as  much  as  they 
could,  and  we  are  going  to  have  the  debris  with  another  apple 
pie  for  supper. 

After  dinner  we  sat  around  a  little  while,  then  at  three  o'clock 
went  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  cantonment,  where  there  was  a  Christ- 
mas tree.  There  was  a  movement  made  some  time  ago  to  get 
all  the  soldiers  to  give  one  franc  each  and  the  officers  five  francs 
each  to  provide  for  the  little  French  children  living  in  the  locali- 
ties where  our  troops  are  quartered.  It  was  a  splendid  success. 
I  don't  know  just  how  it  was  managed  in  the  different  organiza- 
tions, but  our  battalion  gave  as  a  unit  and  the  affair  was  run 
by  a  Lieutenant  Naibert  of  our  company.  The  whole  front  of 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hall  was  crowded  with  the  children  and  their 
escorts,  all  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  and  behind  them  was  a 
solid  mass  of  American  soldiers.  Lieutenant  Naibert  did  the 
talking  in  English,  and  the  local  M.  le  Maire  explained  and  ad- 
dressed in  French.  All  the  needy  children  got  shoes,  and  be- 
sides that  all  got  toys,  nuts,  candy,  etc.  M.  le  Maire  had  a  list 
duly  numbered,  and  each  present  was  marked  with  the  name  of 
the  recipient. 

"38,  Marie  Celestine  YvetteLeclerc,"  would  read  M.  le  Maire, 
and  M.  C.  Y.  L.  would  go  up  and  get  a  doll  or  a  box  of  paints. 

"39,  Jean  Joseph  Martin  Leclerc."  And  Marie's  small 
brother  would  receive  a  large  dapple-gray  wooden  horse,  or 
perhaps  a  trumpet.    There  was  a  great  number  of  these  trum- 



pets  given  out,  and  I  expect  we  shall  hear  some  weird  bugle  calls 
at  times  other  than  prescribed  during  the  next  few  days. 

The  ceremony  concluded  with  three  '"Vives"  given  by  M.  le 
Maire:  one  for  "if.  le  Lieutenant  Naihert,''  one  for  "Les  Etats- 
Unis,"  and  one  for  the  ''troisieme  hataillon,  vingt-huitieme  regi- 
ment d'infanterie." 

The  children  were  all  pleased  to  death.  It  was  pleasant,  and 
and  in  a  way  touching,  too,  to  see  them.  One  realized  that  such 
events  did  not  happen  often  in  their  lives. ^ 

January  15,  1918. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  more  of  our  life  here  than  the  facts  that 
we  are  well  and  weather  (usually)  is  bad.  We  have  had  hardly 
anything  but  rain  —  that  is,  until  it  changed  to  snow,  and  today 
it  has  switched  back  to  rain.  It  is  amusing  how  savagely  the 
enlisted  men  write  home  what  they  would  do  if  they  "could  only 
get  that  guy  who  called  this  country  Sunny  France."  Poor 
fellows !  If  they  came  expecting  perennial  blue  skies  and  a  semi- 
tropical  atmosphere,  they  have  been  rudely  enough  undeceived 
by  the  last  few  months.  They're  always  cheerful,  however,  and 
in  the  main  are  a  fine  steady  lot  of  young  fellows. 

January  20,  1918. 
I  have  been  reading  "A  Student  in  Arms,"  2d,  in  short  in- 
stallments each  evening  before  I  go  to  sleep,  and  was  amused 
to  see  the  markings  in  the  chapter  "Don't  Worry."  Strange 
to  say  I  have  been  feeling  utterly  careless  and  irresponsible  for 
some  time,  and  it  was  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  be  smitten  with 
the  fact  that  I  ought  to  take  things  more  seriously  that  I  struck 
the  "Don't  Worry."  I  think  Hankey's  idea  is  the  right  one  so 
long  as  one  is  conscious  of  trying  to  do  one's  best  and  sticking 
at  one's  work.  I  regret  to  say,  however,  that  I  have  not  put  in 
the  time  that  I  should  in  studying  my  profession  of  late,  and  I 
must  get  busy.    The  weather  is  much  better  now,  the  sun  out, 

^  See  ante,  p.  125,  for  an  account  of  the  same  celebration  by  Red- 
wood's fellow-officer  of  the  28th,  Haydock. 



the  snow  gone,  and  the  mud  fast  drying.  Everyone  is  beginning 
to  feel  more  industrious  and  energetic  now  that  less  time  is  put 
in  in  keeping  warm. 

February  3. 

Manoeuvring,  exercises,  drills,  and  work  of  one  kind  and 
another,  as  well  as  censoring  letters  and  making  inspections  keep 
us  pretty  well  occupied.  It  was  certainly  nice  of  you  to  want  to 
send  me  something,  but  really  1  hardly  know  of  anything  I  need. 
Books  and  papers  are,  of  course,  very  welcome  by  the  Y.  M.  C.  A 
etc.,  which  runs  small  circulating  libraries  where  officers  and 
enlisted  men  can  get  books  for  occasional  reading.  In  the  kit 
of  an  individual  there  is  little  room,  usually,  for  reading  matter, 
which  tends  to  be  either  mislaid  or  destroyed.  Hence  those  who 
have  time  for  reading  are  in  a  bad  way  if  they  can't  get  some- 
thing from  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut.  I  was  amused  to  hear  one  officer 
who  had  had  a  school  assignment  at  a  town  "somewhere  else 
in  France  "  say  with  great  emphasis  when  he  came  back  to  our 
command,  "And  you  know  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  there  had  real  books 
to  read,  and  they  were  nt  war  books  either!"  It  made  me  think 
of  the  old  sailor  who  told  the  clergyman  that  was  to  preach  at 
a  Seaman's  Mission  "Please  sir,  for  the  love  o'  Heaven  don't 
talk  about  ships!" 

Those  little  libraries  mean  a  great  deal,  I  think.  For  some 
time  our  "Y"  was  without  one,  but  now  we  have  quite  a  fair 
collection.  There  are  few  things,  I  suppose,  that  recall  home 
to  a  man  much  more  than  the  books  and  papers  of  the  United 
States.  It  is  difficult  to  advise  you  just  how  to  help  directly, 
but  from  what  I  see  I  think  anything  you  do  for  or  send  to  the 
"Y"  won't  be  amiss.  It  and  our  regimental  chaplains  are  the 
greatest  helps  I  believe  we  have. 

In  a  letter  of  March  7,  Redwood  sent  his  mother  specific 
instructions  for  the  application  of  tithes  from  his  income 
to  religious  and  beneficent  purposes.  On  St.  Patrick's  Day 
he  wrote  to  a  warlike  cousin : 



My,  but  you  are  blood-thirsty!  Is  that  the  way  the  suffrage 
affects  you?  Please  note,  ma'am,  that  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of 
toting  a  bayonet  about,  but  am  armed  only  with  an  automatic 
pistol  for  self-defense.  I  have  never  yet  had  occasion  to  shoot 
even  that  in  earnest,  and  for  all  I  know,  I  never  may.  Well, 
since  you  have  such  feelings,  here  is  a  scrap  of  German  uniform 
on  which  I  think  by  careful  scrutiny  I  have  detected  German 
Blood  !  (but  sh !  suppose  it  were  only  vin  rouge  or  red  ink !)  You 
had  best  spill  on  more  to  get  the  proper  effect,  and  possibly  a 
little  white  enamel  judiciously  worked  in  might  be  palmed  off 
on  the  unsuspecting  as  German  Brains!!! 

Love  to  all  at  home, 

Your  now  plump  cousin, 

George  B.  Redwood. 

Two  days  later  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  Stephen  B.  Luce 
(Harvard,  '09) : 

I  wish  I  could  write  more  about  what  we  see  and  do  over  here, 
but,  as  you  know,  that  is  forbidden.  Of  course  we  every  now 
and  then  have  comical  meetings  with  people  we  knew  before, 
at  training  camps,  etc.,  or  those  who  know  those  that  we  know. 
You're  out  of  luck  indeed  if  you  can't  find  some  acquaintance  in 
common  or  bond  of  union  with  almost  everyone  you  meet.  This 
life  is  a  remarkable  one,  what  I  have  seen  of  it,  and  if  narrowing 
intellectually  is  certainly  broadening  humanly.  That  is,  in 
many  ways,  for  it  has  an  unfortunate  tendency  (at  least  I  feel 
it)  of  making  anyone  inclined  to  be  selfish,  three  times  more  so 
than  ever  before.  This  seems  rather  hard  to  explain  with  what 
I  said  above,  but  it  is  so.  It  brings  out  what  is  in  people  so  that 
everything  is  abominably  visible  to  all.  But  enough  —  Pereat 
Borussia  et  Philosophia  I 

Well,  pax  vobiscum,  or  rather  bellum  vobiscum,  if  you 
wish  it. 

There  is  little  or  nothing  in  these  letters  to  indicate  the 
importance  of  the  work  Redwood  was  doing  through  all 



this  period.  In  one  exploit,  on  the  night  of  March  28-29, 
he  brought  into  notable  play  the  qualities  which  gave  him 
his  special  value  as  an  intelligence  officer.  On  Easter 
Sunday,  March  31,  he  writes  to  his  mother: 

I  am  going  to  enclose  another  shoulder  strap  of  the  259th 
German  Reserve  Infantry  Regiment.  It  came  from  the  blouse 
of  a  prisoner.  Keep  it  and  if  I  can,  later  on,  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing rather  amusing  in  connection  with  it.  By  the  way,  too, 
if  you  ever  happen  to  see  in  the  New  York  Times,  or  any  other 
illustrated  paper,  a  picture  showing  four  Germans  guarded  by 
four  American  soldiers,  the  latter  looking  most  amazingly  tough 
with  clubs  in  their  hands  and  their  faces  blackened  like  negro 
minstrels,  please  cut  it  out  and  keep  it.  Don't  spend  any  time 
looking  for  it,  but  if  you  should  see  such  a  picture  anywhere 
about  the  same  time  you  get  this  letter,  save  it. 

With  this  casual  mention.  Redwood  dismisses  the 
episode.  Two  years  later,  however.  Private  Edward  V. 
Armstrong,  one  of  the  thirty-two  men  under  Redwood's 
leadership  in  the  Intelligence  Department,  gives  a  clearer 
idea  of  what  happened  that  black  night  at  Seicheprey,  and 
at  the  same  time  brings  out,  with  all  the  force  of  simple 
words,  the  dominant  part  played  in  the  critical  moments 
of  Redwood's  life  by  his  religion.  Writing  to  Redwood's 
mother  on  Easter  Sunday,  1919,  Armstrong  says: 

Today  brings  to  my  mind  a  little  incident  that  happened  in 
the  Toul  sector,  when  we  took  our  first  prisoners.  The  order 
had  just  come  in  for  Lieutenant  Redwood  to  take  some  men  on 
patrol  —  that  prisoners  were  wanted  at  once.  It  was  just  a  few 
days  before  Easter.  The  order  came  about  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  Lieutenant  asked  for  volunteers  to  go,  and  of 
course  all  of  us  wanted  to  go  with  him.  Well,  he  picked  four 
of  us  to  go,  and  then  prayed  that  we  might  be  successful  and 



promised  us  that  if  we  took  prisoners  he  would  read  us  the 
Gospel  on  Easter  Sunday.  The  five  of  us  started  out  and  got 
into  "No  Man's  Land"  about  2  a.m.  It  was  very  dark,  and 
raining  a  great  deal.  We  had  a  very  hard  time  finding  our  way 
and  crawling  around  shell  holes  and  through  barbed  wire.  We 
finally  got  over  and  into  the  German  trenches  and  took  our 
prisoners  and  got  back  all  right,  because  it  was  getting  daylight. 
Lieutenant  Redwood  had  a  very  bad  cold,  and  with  the  wet 
and  damp  of  that  morning  it  rapidly  became  worse,  so  that  on 
Sunday  he  could  not  speak;  but  he  had  Lieutenant  Birmingham 
read  the  Gospel  for  him, 

I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that  out  of  those  five  men  I  am  the 
only  one  alive. 

For  this  achievement  Redwood  was  immediatelv  cited 
in  the  General  Orders  both  of  the  First  Division  and  of  the 
32d  French  Army  Corps,^  received  a  special  commendation 
by  order  of  General  Pershing,  and  the  posthumous  award 
of  the  Distinguished  Service  Cross.  His  letters  went  on  as 
if  little  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  events  had  happened : 

April  18. 
The  things  were  (and  are,  for  we  have  n't  finished  them  all 
yet)  splendid.  The  same  day,  too,  I  get  your  cablegram  and  it 
was  just  like  having  a  pressure  of  your  hand.  I  thought  at  first 
it  was  for  Easter,  then  I  concluded  that  you  must  have  learned 
through  the  papers  or  otherwise  of  our  little  adventure,  which 
in  several  ways  was  one  of  the  quaintest  bits  of  comic  opera 
(considering  that  it  was  really  supposed  to  be  war)  that  I  have 
run  into.  I  was  going  to  write,  but  suddenly  got  orders  that 
sent  me  off  for  a  day  on  a  special  detail. 

1  With  the  French  Army  citation  tlie  Croix  de  Guerre  was  awarded 
to  Redwood.  Of  him  and  his  corporal  it  was  declared:  Ontfait  preiive 
des  plus  belles  qualites  militaires  en  penetram  dans  un  paste  d' observation 
dont  Us  capturerent  la  garnison.  AttaquSs  par  un  parti  ennemi,  Vont 
repousse  en  lui  infligant  des  pertes  et  ont  ramene  quatre  prisonmers. 



April  28. 

I  was  so  pleased  to  hear  from  you  again,  and  appreciated  your 
sending  the  news,  which  was  the  first  (  and  is  so  far  the  only)  one 
to  reach  me,  though  I  judged  some  sort  of  account  of  our  little 
patrol  had  got  out  from  a  cable  message  I  got  from  the  mater. 
The  newspaper  versions  varied  from  facts  at  sundry  points,  but 
here  and  there  hit  points  quite  correctly.  One  of  the  Boches 
actually  did  say  he  wished  his  brother  could  be  brought  over, 
too,  when  he  found  how  well  he  was  to  be  treated  and  that  he 
got  white  bread  and  real  instead  of  substitute  coffee. 

One  of  them  asked  one  of  our  men  in  an  awestruck  whisper, 
"When  are  they  going  to  shoot  us?"  {Wann  werden  sie  uns 
shiessen),  and  was  relieved  when  told  that  we  were  not  in  the 
habit  of  shooting  our  prisoners.  Another,  after  they  had  been 
safely  brought  behind  the  rear  of  our  line,  asked  permission  to 
smoke;  when  it  was  granted  he  jauntily  pulled  forth  a  well-filled 
cigarette  case  and  offered  it  courteously  to  me  before  helping 

Well,  I  had  best  close  now  and  get  this  in.  I  should  n't  won- 
der if  I  were  in  danger  of  exceeding  censorship  regulations  by 
going  any  further,  though  so  far  I  think  I  am  safe.  It  is  strange 
how  much  more  the  papers  can  publish  than  we  can  write. 

May  3. 

Well, being  a  suffragist,  I  suppose  has  to  do  some  savage 

hating  or  something  of  the  sort.  I  hope  she  liked  the  piece  of 
uniform  I  sent  her  even  if  it  was  n't  quite  gory  enough  to  suit 
her  fancy. 

Honestly,  I  don't  believe  in  this  business  of  hating  your 
enemy.  Robert  W.  Service's  "Song  of  the  Sandbags"  (in 
"Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man")  strikes  a  very  true  note.  It  is 
pitiful  when  a  Boche  prisoner,  clean  cut  and  apparently  a  good, 
intelligent  little  fellow,  asks  one  of  his  captors  in  an  awestruck 
whisper,  "When  are  they  going  to  shoot  us?"  and  after  being 
reassured  says,  "They  told  me  'Woe  to  you  if  the  Americans 
ever  take  you,' "  and  then  adds,  "We  thought  you  were  all  going 



to  be  Indians ! "  It 's  pleasant  to  see  them,  too,  if  scared,  regain 
confidence  when  they  find  that  they  are  going  to  be  well  treated. 
Some  are  frankly  glad  to  have  been  captured,  and  all  that  I  have 
seen  ploughing  in  the  fields  of  France  appeared  quite  contented 
with  their  lot.  En  masse,  of  course,  they  are  formidable,  but 
individually  they  don't  seem  to  be  so  eager  for  a  scrap  from  all 
that  I  have  heard  and  seen. 

May  10. 

Associated  Press  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  I  am  noth- 
ing so  exalted  as  a  "Regimental  Intelligence  Officer."  Battalion 
Scout  Officer  is  all  I  can  lay  claim  to.  That  was  how  I  happened 
to  get  that  job  you  have  mentioned  put  upon  my  most  unwilling 
shoulders.  Do  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  I  was  one  bit 
anxious  to  do  it  or  anything  of  the  kind.  "Orders  is  orders," 
that  is  all. 

Just  at  present  I  have  the  job  of  "Acting  Battalion  Adjutant," 
which  is  not  my  rightful  one  and  which  I  hope  —  fervently  — 
soon  to  be  rid  of.  It  was  through  an  unfortunate  combination 
of  circumstances  that  I  had  that  "greatness  thrust  upon  me." 
I  should  say  "pettiness,"  for  it  seems  to  be  nothing  but  the 
remembering  of  countless  details  involving  an  extensive  knowl- 
edge of  the  battalion  itself,  of  Army  regulations,  military  eti- 
quette, customs  of  the  Service,  Manual  of  Court  Martial,  etc., 
etc.,  etc.,  all  of  which  my  C.  O.  amiably  presupposes  I  have  — 
and  I  have  n't ! 

In  the  first  week  of  April  the  first  Division  had  been 
withdrawn  from  the  front  line,  to  which  it  returned  be- 
fore the  end  of  May,  when  the  28th  Infantry  performed  its 
important  part  in  the  action  at  Cantigny.  In  this  engage- 
ment, on  May  28,  Redwood  was  killed.  For  twelve  suc- 
cessive nights  before  the  fight  he  made  his  way  into  the 
German  lines,  and  into  the  village  of  Cantigny,  and 
brought  back  not  only  the  information  which  his  good 



knowledge  of  French  and  German  enabled  him  to  secure, 
but  also  maps  and  plans  of  attack  which  contributed 
directly  to  the  capture  of  the  place.  "He  would  come  in 
about  daylight,"  said  a  fellow-soldier,  "covered  with  mud 
from  crawling  around  the  trenches  and  under  the  barbed 
wire,  and  looking  like  anything  but  an  officer  —  change 
his  clothes,  get  a  bite  to  eat  and  turn  in  for  some  sleep, 
and  do  the  same  thing  the  following  night  until  the  entire 
situation  was  clearly  developed." 

In  the  fight  itself  he  displayed  a  bravery  which  any 
soldier  might  envy  as  marking  the  last  of  his  days. 
Wounded  in  the  battle,  he  returned  to  the  fight  after  his 
injury  had  been  dressed  in  the  shelter  of  a  shell  hole. 
Wounded  a  second  time,  and  more  severelj^  he  saved  the 
life  of  a  corporal  of  his  regiment,  also  gravely  injured,  by 
helping  him  to  the  aid  station,  and  insisted,  when  his  own 
wound  was  dressed,  on  returning  a  second  time  to  the 
fight,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  tagged  for  the 
hospital.  It  was  then  that  he  received  the  wounds  that 
caused  his  death.  A  French  liaison  officer  attached  to  the 
First  Division  said,  when  the  war  was  over,  "I  would 
rather  have  that  man  Redwood  alive  than  to  have  taken 

The  posthumous  reward  of  the  Distinguished  Service 
Cross,  with  the  oak-leaf  cluster  which  is  bestowed  for  a 
succeeding  act  justifying  a  similar  award,  was  made  in 
the  following  terms: 

George  B.  Redwood,  first  lieutenant,  28th  Infantry.  For 
extraordinary  heroism  in  action  at  Seicheprey,  France,  March 
28th,  1918.  With  great  daring  he  led  a  patrol  of  our  men  into 
a  dangerous  portion  of  the  enemy  trenches,  where  the  patrol 



surrounded  a  party  nearly  double  their  own  strength,  captured 
a  greater  number  than  themselves,  drove  off  an  enemy  rescuing 
party,  and  made  their  way  back  to  our  lines  with  four  prisoners, 
from  whom  valuable  information  was  taken. 

He  is  awarded  an  oak-leaf  cluster,  to  be  worn  with  the  Dis- 
tinguished Service  Cross,  for  the  following  act  of  extraordinary 
heroism:  At  Cantigny,  France,  May  29th, ^  1918,  he  conducted 
himself  fearlessly  to  obtain  information  of  the  enemy's  action. 
Although  wounded,  he  volunteered  to  reconnoitre  the  enemy's 
line,  which  was  reported  to  be  under  consolidation.  While  mak- 
ing a  sketch  of  the  German  position  on  this  mission  he  was 
under  heavy  fire,  and  continued  his  work  after  being  fatally 
wounded  until  it  was  completed.  The  injuries  sustained  at  this 
time  caused  his  death. 

In  his  own  city  of  Baltimore  Redwood's  memory  was 
honored  by  the  organization  of  the  "George  B.  Redwood 
Post,  Veterans  of  Foreign  Wars,"  and,  even  more  notably, 
by  the  change  in  the  name  of  an  important  business 
thoroughfare  from  German  Street  to  Redwood  Street. 

In  connection  with  this  last  tribute,  Brigadier-General 
Frank  Parker,  commanding  the  First  Division  of  the 
American  Expeditionary  Forces,  sent  the  following  mes- 
sage to  the  Mayor  of  Baltimore  on  October  23,  1918: 

News  has  reached  this  division  that  the  City  of  Baltimore, 
Maryland,  has  named  one  of  its  streets  in  memory  of  First 
Lieutenant  George  B.  Redwood,  Intelligence  Officer,  28th 
United  States  Infantry,  killed  in  action  at  Cantigny  on  the  28th 
of  May,  1918. 

The  First  Division  of  the  American  Expeditionary  Forces 
desires  to  express  to  the  City  of  Baltimore  its  profound  satis- 
faction in  knowing  of  this  tribute  to  one  of  its  members  —  an 

1  Actually  May  28. 



officer  whose  high  example  of  all  that  is  best  in  American  man- 
hood is  a  heritage  of  honor  and  pride  which  this  Division  shares 
with  his  native  city. 

To  Redwood's  mother,  General  Parker  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing letter: 

This  command  sends  to  you,  through  me,  this  expression  of 
pride,  shared  with  you,  in  the  record  of  your  son. 

No  finer  example  of  our  nation  has  given  his  life  for  the  Great 
Cause.  In  our  memory  he  marches  in  the  van  of  the  bravest  and 
best  —  those  who  sought  the  posts  of  the  highest  honor  — 
nearest  the  enemy. 

The  commemorative  tablet  in  the  Baltimore  Cathedral, 
mentioned  on  a  previous  page,  was  erected  by  the  Lay 
Council  of  the  Cathedral,  of  which  Redwood  was  a  de- 
voted member.  His  religion  was  so  natural  and  essential 
a  part  of  his  life  that  a  fellow-officer  wrote,  with  no  ap- 
parent surprise,  after  his  death:  "Men  who  went  on 
patrols  with  him  have  told  me  that  after  leaving  the  trench 
and  entering  No  Man's  Land,  he  alwaj^s  knelt  in  a  shell- 
hole  and  prayed,  and  that  he  was  ever  careful  not  to  ex- 
pose them  needlessly  in  dangerous  positions.  He  always 
regarded  his  men.  As  to  himself,  he  sought  the  place 
of  greatest  danger,  and  fear  was  a  word  with  which  he 
had  no  acquaintance.  .  .  .  To  me  Lieutenant  Redwood 
seems  to  have  been  the  incarnation  of  the  Christian 

Another  friend,  Stephen  B.  Luce,  '09,  has  written,  more 

I  think  all  who  knew  George  Redwood  would  say  that  the 
striking  thing  about  his  character  was  his  deeply  religious  nature. 



I  have  never  known  a  man  to  whom  Christianity  meant  more. 
Unselfish  service  in  every  relationship  in  life  was  the  keynote  of 
his  life,  and  this  unselfishness  was  founded  on  a  firm  belief  in 
the  mercy  of  Christ,  and  His  infinite  love  and  wisdom.  His 
devotion  to  his  mother  and  brother,  and  willingness  to  sacrifice 
his  own  pleasure  to  give  them  and  others  pleasure  were  beauti- 
ful things  to  look  back  upon.  To  him,  more  than  to  any  man  I 
have  ever  known,  the  chance  to  serve  his  country  in  the  war 
and  to  rescue  from  utter  darkness  the  principles  of  right,  justice 
and  humanity,  seemed  a  sacrament  almost  as  sacred  as  the  Holy 
Communion.  He  was  the  true  Crusader,  who  went  to  war  for 
an  ideal,  and  to  give  his  life,  if  need  be,  that  the  faith  of  his 
fathers  and  the  things  of  the  spirit  might  be  saved  to  the  world. 

Let  no  one  suppose  from  this  that  George  Redwood  was  a 
prig.  I  think  his  decorations  for  heroism  in  action  prove  the 
reverse.  His  sense  of  humor  was  original  and  charming.  His 
conversation  and  letters  sparkled  with  wit,  when  with  those  he 
knew  well  and  to  whom  he  had  given  his  friendship.  He  had  in 
many  ways  the  mind  and  tastes  of  the  true  scholar,  in  his  de- 
light in  things  of  the  intellect,  and  his  fondness  for  digging  into 
old  books.  No  one,  however,  was  quicker  to  detect  a  sham  than 
he,  and  his  wit  in  exposing  it  was  never  caustic  or  bitter,  but 
always  kindly  and  charming. 

One  of  the  things  that  I  have  always  thought  of  in  connection 
with  George  Redwood  was  the  way  he  had  been  unconsciously 
preparing  himself  for  the  great  event  of  his  life,  so  that  when  it 
came,  he  was  ready.  In  College  he  had  been  especially  interested 
in  the  German  language  and  literature,  and,  while  abroad  in 
1910,  he  learned  to  speak  German  like  a  native.  His  very  good 
natural  talent  at  sketching  and  drawing  he  developed  by  attend- 
ing classes  in  Baltimore  after  graduation  from  Harvard.  His 
lifelong,  intelligent  interest  in  military  affairs  made  him  an  apt 
student  at  the  training  camps.  Above  all,  his  deep  faith  in 
Christ,  and  his  unselfish  nature  made  him  an  ideal  officer,  — 
one  who  thought  of  the  comfort  and  well-being  of  his  men  before 



he  gave  a  thought  to  himself,  and  who,  as  a  result,  commanded 
their  unquestioning  obedience  and  devotion. 

What  would  George  have  done  had  he  lived?  I  often  wonder. 
I  feel  that  he  would  either  have  remained  in  the  Army,  or  gone 
into  the  Church.  In  the  Army,  he  would  have  won  promotion, 
more  decorations,  probably  the  Congressional  Medal  ultimately. 
Whatever  course  he  would  have  taken,  he  would  have  been  a 
fighter,  —  battling  for  ideals  and  the  souls  of  men,  armed  with 
the  faith  that  sets  men  free,  and  the  devotion  of  a  zealot,  wear- 
ing either  the  khaki  of  an  officer  or  the  black  cloth  of  a  clergy- 
man, but  in  either  case  a  true  soldier  of  Christ. 



Class  of  1901 

1 N  the  Harvard  Roll  of  Honor,  which  includes  the  names 
of  members  of  the  auxiliary  services  who  died  while  en- 
gaged in  their  duties  overseas,  there  are  two  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
secretaries  and  Henrv  Corliss  Shaw  was  one  of  them. 

He  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  November 
2,  1877,  the  only  son  of  the  late  Charles  Russell  Shaw  and 
Ella  Hattie    (Davis)    Shaw.     Cambridge  was  his  home 



throughout  his  Hfe.  His  earlier  schooling  was  in  the  public 
schools  of  that  city  and  the  Waltham  (Massachusetts) 
New  Church  —  Swedenborgian  —  School  for  Boys.  His 
immediate  preparation  for  college  was  made  at  the  Browne 
and  Nichols  School  of  Cambridge.  He  entered  and  grad- 
uated from  Harvard  College  with  the  Class  of  1901,  and 
in  1904  graduated  from  the  Harvard  Law  School.  As  an 
undergraduate  he  was  a  member  of  the  Pi  Eta  Society  and 
the  Cercle  Frangais.  His  social  qualities  found  expres- 
sion after  his  graduation  in  a  small  lunch  club  of  friends 
who  supplemented  their  weekly  meeting  by  "celebrations  " 
at  odd  times  through  the  year.  For  these  Shaw  was  a 
moving  spirit  in  the  arrangement  of  entertainments,  in 
which  he  was  wont  to  take  an  important  part.  He  greatly 
enjoyed  "dramatics,"  and  was  in  frequent  demand  by 
his  class  and  by  charitable  organizations  to  give  mono- 
logues. A  lively  sense  of  humor  entered  into  both  the 
delivery  and  the  invention  of  amusing  stories.  He  was 
fond  of  children,  who  in  turn  were  eager  to  listen  to  him.  It 
was  no  unusual  thing  to  see  him  with  a  child  on  his  knee 
telling  a  story  which  held  the  attention  of  the  child  and  at 
the  same  time  kept  a  room  full  of  its  elders  in  laughter. 

Shaw  was  a  constant  attendant  at  the  Church  of  the 
New  Jerusalem  (Swedenborgian)  in  Cambridge  and  took 
a  lively  interest  in  its  activities,  both  as  president  of  its 
Young  People's  League  and  as  president  of  the  Lynn 
Neighborhood  House  conducted  by  the  Church  Society. 
He  was  fond  of  outdoor  sports  and  devoted  much  time 
to  tennis. 

In  Cambridge  he  practised  law  at  one  time  as  a  member 
of  the  firm  of  Shaw  and  Brooks;   in  Boston  he  began  his 



practice  in  the  office  of  Myer  and  Brooks,  and  afterwards 
opened  an  office  of  his  own,  sharing  chambers,  though  not 
in  partnership,  with  three  other  young  members  of  his 
profession.  There  he  was  gradually  building  up  a  com- 
fortable practice. 

His  first  activities  in  connection  with  the  war  were 
devoted  to  various  "drives,"  Red  Cross,  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
and  the  like.  Not  satisfied  with  this  work  he  felt  that, 
although  too  old  to  enlist  as  a  fighting  man,  he  must  do 
something  overseas  and  offered  his  services  to  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  On  March  30,  1918,  in  his  forty-first  year, 
he  sailed  from  New  York  on  the  Rochambeau  as  a  "Y" 

His  diary  on  the  voyage  and  in  France,  his  letters  from 
the  stations  in  the  neighborhood  of  towns  at  which  he 
served,  are  filled  with  happiness  and  satisfaction.  At 
St.  Aignan,  Mareuil,  and  other  places  he  made  himself 
useful  in  a  variety  of  ways,  arranging  cinema  and  musical 
entertainments  for  the  men  about  him,  helping  an  Ameri- 
can soldier  to  write  to  a  French  girl  in  her  own  language, 
lending  a  hand  at  all  manner  of  odd  jobs.  Urging  a  friend 
in  America  to  follow  him  into  the  overseas  "Y"  work,  he 
wrote,  April  28:  "You'll  be  glad  as  long  as  you  live  that 
you  came.  It 's  trulj^  the  big  adventure  even  for  those  of 
us  in  this  work."  The  humors  of  his  surroundings  were 
not  lost  upon  him.  Witness  an  entry  in  his  diary  on  May 
5th:  "The  other  evening  before  going  to  bed  I  asked 
Madame  D — —  for  a  drink  of  water.  She  was  quite  willing 
to  get  it  but  suggested  that  I  have  white  wine  instead.  I 
said  no,  water  would  be  sufficient.  Then  she  suggested 
syrup  in  the  water  but  I  said  no,  only  water.     Then  she 



asked  me  if  I  had  understood  what  she  said  and  I  told 
her  yes.  Whereupon  she  brought  me  some  water.  By 
that  time  I  was  a  Httle  nervous  about  the  water  myself, 
but  I  had  to  see  it  through.  So  grasping  it  firmly  and 
thinking  of  Socrates  and  his  cup  of  hemlock,  I  drank  it 
while  IMadame  and  her  mother  watched  me  in  horror. 
The  French,  I  think,  consider  water  and  air  far  more 
dangerous  elements  than  fire." 

Shaw  had  been  in  active  service  little  more  than  a  month 
when  an  army  friend  asked  him,  on  May  28,  to  drive  to 
Tours  in  a  inotor  from  a  station  not  far  bevond  Mont- 
richard.  They  crossed  the  Cher  at  that  place,  and  soon 
afterwards,  when  they  were  obliged  to  pass  a  vehicle  at 
one  side  and  attempted  to  take  the  road  again,  their  car 
was  overturned  and  Shaw  was  instantlv  killed. 

He  was  buried  at  Montrichard,  May  30,  Memorial  Day, 
1918.  A  service  in  his  memory,  attended  by  many  mem- 
bers of  his  class,  was  held  in  the  Church  of  the  New  Jeru- 
salem in  Cambridge  on  June  13,  and  in  October,  1920,  his 
body  was  brought  to  the  United  States  and  interred  at  the 
Mount  Auburn  Cemetery. 

Many  letters  to  his  family  froin  friends  both  at  home 
and  abroad  testified  to  the  fact  that  in  everything  he 
undertook  he  was  conscientious  to  the  last  degree,  full 
of  sympathy  for  others,  finding  nothing  too  trivial  to 
interest  him  if  it  concerned  another's  comfort,  and  never 
permitting  a  word  of  praise  for  himself. 



Class  of  1913 

JJORN  at  Sausalito,  California,  March  6, 1891,  Livingston 
Low  Baker  was  a  son  of  the  late  Wakefield  Baker,  of  the 
Harvard  Class  of  1887,  and  Coralie  (Thomas)  Baker.  He 
made  his  preparation  for  college  at  Phillips-Exeter  Acad- 
emy, entered  Harvard  with  the  Class  of  1913,  and  took 
his  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  in  regular  course.  In  his 
junior  year  he  played  on  the  class  football  team  and  was 
leader  of  the  University  Banjo  Club.  He  belonged  also 
to  the  Mandolin,  Phillips,  and  Western  Clubs. 

Immediately  upon  his  graduation  he  sailed  for  Europe 
and  spent  the  remainder  of  the  year  in  travelling  about 
Germany,  France,  Switzerland,  and  England.  Returning 
with  his  brother  via  the  West  Indies  and  Panama  Canal, 



sailing  from  Balboa  to  San  Francisco,  he  reached  home 
before  Christmas,  and  on  January  2,  1914,  entered  the 
employ  of  the  San  Francisco  firm  of  Baker  and  Hamilton 
—  of  which  his  father  had  been  president  —  wholesale 
dealers  in  light  and  heavy  hardware,  sporting  goods,  agri- 
cultural implements,  and  creamery  machinery.  In  the 
following  year  he  was  elected  a  director  of  the  company, 
which,  on  consolidation  with  the  Pacific  Hardware  and 
Steel  Company,  became  known  as  the  Baker,  Hamilton, 
and  Pacific  Company.  The  considerable  interest  of  his 
family  in  the  Baker  and  Hamilton  Company  gave  him 
the  opportunity  to  shift  from  one  department  of  the  busi- 
ness to  another,  and  to  master  its  principles.  He  also  de- 
voted some  attention  to  the  California  Building  Material 
Company,  of  which  he  became  a  director  and  treasurer. 
In  the  Second  Report  of  his  class,  he  wrote  of  himself: 
"Together  with  my  duties  of  business,  to  which  I  devote 
about  eight  hours  a  day,  I  have  been  putting  in  a  couple 
of  hours  on  the  study  of  corporation  finance,  investments, 
and  banking.  That  fills  up  the  days.  In  the  evenings  I 
accept  all  invitations  offered." 

In  the  same  Report  his  military  interest  is  first  revealed : 
"Last  summer  I  spent  the  month  of  July  at  the  Military 
Training  Camp  at  Monterey,  and  expect  to  attend  the  one 
to  be  held  at  Santa  Barbara  this  summer.  In  case  of  war 
with  Germany  I  shall  enlist.  P.S.  My  nickname  is  still 

From  what  was  obviously  the  beginning  of  a  business 
career  of  much  promise,  Baker  turned  promptly  when  the 
United  States  entered  the  war.  On  July  3,  1917,  he  en- 
listed as  private,  first  class,  Aviation  Section,  Signal  Corps, 



and  was  immediately  detailed  to  the  School  of  Military 
Aeronautics  in  Berkeley,  California.  Here  he  graduated 
with  honors  on  September  1.  On  September  7  he  started 
East,  and  on  September  24,  after  a  brief  stay  at  Fort 
Wood,  New  York,  sailed  for  Europe.  From  Southampton 
he  proceeded,  about  October  15,  to  Paris,  whence  he  was 
ordered  to  Foggia,  Italy.  There  he  arrived  October  27. 
In  March,  1918,  still  at  Foggia,  he  received  his  commission 
as  first  lieutenant,  and  there,  on  June  1,  he  was  killed  in 
an  airplane  accident. 

The  circumstances  are  fully  related,  and  the  young 
officer's  personal  characteristics  are  shown  forth,  in  two 
letters,  the  first  from  an  American  lieutenant  of  aviation 
to  Baker's  mother,  the  second,  in  translation,  from  an 
Italian  pilot  instructor  to  his  commanding  officer: 

June  3,  1918. 

Livingston  was  in  charge  of  the  second  brevet  line.  On  this 
morning  he  had  taken  up  a  machine  to  test  the  air  for  his  men; 
this  is  always  done  before  the  pupils  are  allowed  to  go  up  them- 
selves. He  had  made  a  short  tour  around  camp,  and  was  coming 
in  over  the  barracks,  about  one  hundred  metres  high,  when  he 
made  a  sharp  turn  to  come  into  the  field.  The  machine  was 
banked  up  quite  steeply,  and  instead  of  coming  down  in  an  easy 
glide,  it  slid  off  on  one  wing  and  went  into  a  slow  spinning  nose 
dive.  A  second  or  so  later  it  struck  the  roof  of  one  of  the  han- 
gars and  then  fell  to  the  ground.  Livingston  was  killed  instantly. 
The  doctor  said  his  neck  was  broken  at  the  moment  of  impact. 
The  accident  happened  at  about  six  o'clock,  on  the  morning  of 
June  1. 

The  funeral  was  held  at  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning.  He 
was  buried  with  full  military  honors,  every  officer  and  man  in 
camp  attending.  Planes  circled  over  the  cemetery  all  during  the 



I  do  not  believe  there  was  a  more  popular  fellow  in  camp  than 
Livingston  His  absence  is  felt  very  deeply  by  the  whole  com- 
mand. We,  his  roommates,  feel  his  cheery  comradeship  will 
never  be  replaced. 

FoGGiA,  Italy, 
June  1,  1918. 
Commanding  Officer: 

Today  the  undersigned,  an  officer  in  the  Italian  Army,  bows 
before  the  bier  of  the  American  Lieutenant  L.  L.  Baker,  with 
admiration  and  affection.  Today  America  and  Italy  jointly 
lose  one  of  their  best  officers,  one  of  the  best  pilots  of  the  allied 
aviation  services.  I  am  prompted  to  make  this  statement  by 
a  feeling  of  esprit-de-corps;  but  further,  if  a  simple  and  earnest 
word  dictated  by  the  heart  can  assuage  the  grief  and  add  to  the 
pride  of  remembrance  of  those  who  within  a  few  days  shall 
mourn  for  him  over  there,  I  crave  your  permission  to  do  so. 

It  was  my  pleasure  to  have  Livingston  L.  Baker  as  my  pupil 
from  first  to  second  class.  He  showed  himself  to  be  an  excellent 
pilot  and  a  fine  boy ;  I  asked  that  he  be  detailed  as  instructor  in 
my  district,  and  whenever  I  was  called  away  by  other  duties  it 
was  with  a  feeling  of  entire  confidence  that  I  left  him  in  charge. 
As  an  instructor  he  was  first  class  and  did  excellent  work  until 
his  transfer  to  the  bombing  squadron  compelled  him  to  leave 
the  lines.  While  under  instruction  in  the  latter  squadron  I  was 
obliged  to  call  him  back  to  his  first  work  as  he  was  the  only 
one  in  whom  I  could  place  full  and  unlimited  confidence.  This 
pleased  him  very  much,  as  he  was  very  fond  of  hard  work,  and 
until  this  morning  at  six  o'clock  Livingston  L.  Baker  has  turned 
out  tens  upon  tens  of  pilots,  and  his  teaching  has  been  marked 
by  constant  attention  and  conscientious  activity  During  the 
last  few  weeks  I  have  had  special  opportunities  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  him;  I  appreciated  his  companionship  and  I 
have  become  attached  to  him  with  the  strongest  bonds  of  friend- 
ship. He  reported  to  me  daily,  three  or  four  times.  He  was  a 
strict  disciplinarian  and  always  showed  the  utmost  respect  and 



consideration  to  his  superior,  his  chief  pilot.  I,  on  the  other 
hand,  each  time  that  he  left  me,  shook  his  hand  with  a  strong 
grip  and  considered  him  as  my  friend,  my  best  friend. 

I  do  not  know,  sir,  that  I  can  add  to  the  foregoing.  I  wish  to 
say,  however,  that  the  manly  figure  of  L.  L.  Baker  is  indelibly 
impressed  on  my  heart  and  mind,  and  that  if  at  some  future 
date  I  shall  have  the  good  fortune  of  meeting  his  parents  I  shall 
feel  proud  to  be  able  to  say  to  them:  "I  was  your  son's  friend; 
he  died  a  noble  death  for  his  country  and  for  mine;  I  have  ad- 
mired him  and  I  have  loved  him;  you  may  well  feel  proud  of 
his  memory." 

Very  respectfully, 

L.  Hermann  di  Targiana, 
Chief  Pilot  Instructor,  Foggia,  South. 



Law  School  1912-13 

Always  do  my  best,  always  have  the  best,  and  always 
be  of  the  best."  As  a  school-boy  Ona  Jefferson  Myers 
adopted  this  motto,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  become  a 
lawyer  —  a  course  which  could  be  accomplished  only  with 
a  large  expenditure  of  effort.  The  event  proved  that  the 
standard  he  set  for  himself  was  not  beyond  his  reach. 

He  was  born  near  Elnora,  Daviess  County,  Indiana, 
December  14,  1888,  the  only  son  of  Oliver  Perry  Myers 
and  Nora  E.  (Mize)  Myers.  When  he  was  ten  years  old 
his  parents  moved  to  southeast  Missouri,  and  at  Freder- 
icktown,  Missouri,  he  received  his  elementary  and  high 
school  education.  In  his  junior  year  at  the  high  school 
he  won  the  scholarship  medal  for  making  the  best  grades 



during  the  year,  and  in  his  senior  year  again  led  the  school, 
but,  because  no  student  could  receive  a  second  medal, 
was  awarded  a  scholarship  in  a  Presbyterian  college.  He 
finished  high  school  in  May,  1906,  and  spent  the  summer 
months  of  that  year  driving  a  mule  in  the  North  American 
lead  mines  near  by,  earning  something  less  than  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  and  spending  nearly  all  of  it  for  an 
encyclopaedia.  Knowing  that  he  must  provide  in  part  for 
his  own  legal  education,  he  entered  the  Gem  City  Business 
College  at  Quincy,  Illinois,  in  September,  1906,  and  grad- 
uated with  such  high  grades  that  he  was  employed  to 
teach  advanced  bookkeeping  in  the  school.  When  he  had 
taught  for  eleven  months,  the  principal  of  the  institution 
offered  him  a  ten-year  contract  to  teach  shorthand,  but, 
fearing  that  the  acceptance  of  this  position  would  turn 
him  from  his  chosen  purpose,  he  resigned  altogether  and 
in  September,  1908,  entered  the  Arts  and  Science  Division 
of  the  University  of  Missouri. 

After  three  years  at  Missouri  he  went  to  the  University 
of  Chicago  (October,  1911),  beginning  his  study  of  law 
and  accomplishing  his  work  for  the  degree  of  Ph.B.,  cum 
lande,  in  the  summer  of  1912.  The  next  academic  year 
he  spent  at  the  Harvard  Law  School.  In  October,  1913, 
he  returned  to  Chicago,  completed  his  studies,  and  was 
graduated  in  August,  1914,  with  the  degree  of  J.D.  cum 

The  following  winter  (February,  1915)  he  entered  the 
law  offices  of  Messrs.  Story  and  Story,  at  Ouray,  Colorado. 
His  parents  possess  only  one  letter  written  home  at  that 
time.    Thus,  in  part,  it  read: 



Ouray,  Colorado, 
Sunday,  February  28, 1915. 

I  will  soon  have  been  here  a  month.  While  this  is  not  a  good 
place  to  stay  permanently,  because  it  is  too  small,  yet  I  feel  it 
is  a  very  good  place  for  me  for  a  few  years.  There  is  an  oppor- 
tunity here  for  me  to  work  into  a  pretty  good  place  in  Salt  Lake 
City.  Whether  I  shall  take  advantage  of  that  opportunity  de- 
pends on  whether  I  can  give  up  some  ideals  of  mine.  It  means 
that  I  would  have  to  become  a  corporation  lawyer.  Although 
that  is  the  most  profitable  kind  of  work,  I  have  always  had  the 
feeling  that  it  was  not  the  best  kind  of  work  to  do.  I  have 
always  thought  I  would  rather  be  a  help  to,  and  the  lawyer  of, 
the  laborer  and  the  farmer.  I  realize,  however,  that  there  is  an 
opportunity  for  a  corporation  lawyer  to  help  the  laborers  much. 
.  .  .     But  this  a  question  I  shall  have  to  fight  out  for  myself. 

Whatever  the  decision,  I  do  not  believe  I  shall  need  to  call 
on  you  for  help  any  more.  You  have  stuck  by  me  through  thick 
and  thin.  I  realize  that  it  has  meant  many  sacrifices  by  you; 
it  has  meant  your  denying  yourself  many  things  that  you  longed 
for  and  often  needed.  Your  faith  in  me  and  my  abilities  — 
proved  in  the  one  way  that  is  beyond  question,  by  your  personal 
sacrifices  —  the  memory  of  your  faith  in  me  and  the  realization 
of  the  sacrifices  you  were  making  that  I  might  make  something 
worth  while  out  of  myself  have  spurred  me  on  whenever  I  have 
felt  like  "chucking"  education  aside  and  getting  a  job  as  a 
stenographer  or  what  not,  with  no  chance  for  doing  things 
worth  while.  Your  faith  in  me  has  made  me  ashamed  of  myself 
whenever  I  have  felt  like  quitting,  and  has  given  me  renewed 
confidence  in  myself. 

I  know  that  with  the  means  you  had  no  parents  ever  did  more 
for  their  son,  and  none  ever  did  it  more  unselfishly.  I  can  never 
even  up  the  obligation  which  you  thereby  have  placed  me 
under.  I  cannot  write  or  speak  all  that  I  feel  and  would  like 
to  say  on  such  a  subject;  but  I  am  sure  you  will  understand;  I 
know  you  would  understand  even  though  I  said  nothing.    My 



obligation  is  very  great  and  I  only  hope  that  I  may  do  enough 
good  in  the  world  so  that  your  sacrifices  will  not  have  been  in 
vain  and  so  that  your  hopes  and  faith  in  me  will  not  have  been 
disappointed  dreams. 

Your  sacrifices,  your  faith  in  me,  my  knowledge  of  your 
simple,  honest  lives  have  made  me  so  honor  you  and  feel  so 
proud  of  you  that  I  have  been  enabled  to  refrain  from  doing 
many  things  that  young  fellows  are  tempted  to  do.  I  was  so 
proud  of  you  that  I  had  strength  of  will  enough  not  to  do  things 
which  would  make  you  ashamed  of  me. 

Two  fellow-students  of  law  with  Mvers  at  the  Uni- 
versity  of  Chicago,  one  of  them  also  a  fellow-student  at 
Harvard,  have  written  letters  in  which  the  impression  he 
made  upon  his  contemporaries  during  his  years  of  prepara- 
tion for  the  law  is  clearlv  indicated.  Mr.  C.  M.  Ozias 
wrote  from  Fresno,  California : 

It  was  in  June  of  1911  that  Jeff,  with  another  companion 
whose  name  I  have  now  forgotten,  came  up  from  the  University 
of  Missouri  and  occupied  an  adjoining  room  in  the  apartment 
house  in  which  I  was  staying,  out  near  the  site  of  the  University 
of  Chicago.  I  was  then  a  student  in  the  Law  School.  Jeff  had 
no  difficulty  in  securing  an  excellent  position  down  town  in 
Chicago  as  a  stenographer  during  that  summer  and  in  the 
autumn  he  began  the  study  of  law  at  the  University.  We  be- 
came friends  —  friends  upon  the  tennis  court  —  friends  at  our 
daily  meals  and  in  the  library  —  friends  for  strolls  through  the 
parks  and  by  the  lake  —  friends  in  that  intimate,  social  inter- 
course wherein  our  hopes,  our  aspirations,  our  plans  and  dreams 
for  the  future  were  the  absorbing  topic  of  our  conversation. 

When  the  University  opened  in  the  autumn,  I  had  some 
opportunity  of  seeing  him  in  action.  He  was  passionately  am- 
bitious. He  was  an  indomitable  worker.  Work  was  his  re- 
ligion, although  he  could  play  like  a  truant.    His  brilliant  record 



as  a  scholar  and  orator  at  Missouri,  Chicago,  and  Harvard 
speaks  for  itself.  I  can  safely  say,  without  fear  of  exaggeration, 
that  he  had  one  of  the  most  brilliant  minds  of  any  person  I  have 
ever  known.  After  I  graduated  from  the  University  in  June  of 
1912,  we  corresponded  at  irregular  intervals.  How  fine,  how 
full  of  his  irrepressible  enthusiasm  and  determination,  how 
marked  with  manifestations  of  his  high  ideals,  and  yet  how  im- 
mensely human,  were  those  letters  he  wrote  to  me!  At  the  close 
of  one  of  them  which  was  rather  long  (but  not  too  long)  and 
which  I  have  preserved  and  treasure,  he  said  in  his  winsome, 
apologetic  style,  "Goodness,  how  much  I  have  written  and  I 
started  out  only  to  write  a  page.  Ozias,  I  certainly  have  a 
deep-seated  friendliness  towards  you."  I  could  ask  for  no 
higher  tribute. 

From  the  Ohio  State  University  Law  School,  Mr.  J.  W. 
Madden  wrote: 

When  I  went  to  the  Law  School  at  Chicago  in  1912,  Jeff  was 
there  and  I  immediately  recognized  in  him  an  unusual  man  and 
student.  That  autumn  I  decided  to  go  to  Harvard  for  a  year 
and  it  was  a  happy  surprise  to  find  that  Jeff  had  taken  the  same 
notion.  We  were  intimate  there,  went  to  New  Haven  together 
for  the  Yale-Harvard  game,  and  worked  together  in  a  club 
court  competition  in  which  he  was  the  principal  factor  in  win- 
ning the  prize  for  our  club,  and  a  little  cash  for  six  of  us,  most 
of  whom  needed  it  badly.  We  were  back  at  Chicago  the  next 
summer  and  year,  and  his  splendid  work  enabled  him  to  do  me 
many  favors.  He  took  up  golf  for  recreation  and  interested 
me  in  it,  and  we  often  went  out  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning 
to  play  a  round. 

Everyone  marveled  at  the  ease  with  which  he  supported  him- 
self and  still  Nept  in  the  front  rank  in  his  studies,  while  the  rest 
of  us  had  as  much  as  we  could  do  to  keep  the  pace  set  by  our 
teachers.  I  remember  how  he  told  me,  in  the  summer  of  1914, 
that  he  was  doing  free  work  for  the  Legal  Aid  Society  and  I 



wondered  how  he  could  find  the  time,  but  he  did  find  it  and  time 
for  everything  else  too. 

His  degree  was  conferred  "with  honor"  as  was  fitting,  for 
he  did  everything  with  honor. 

As  war  approached  Myers  began  to  make  ready  for  his 
part  in  it.  As  early  as  November,  1916,  he  answered  a 
notice  printed  in  The  Saturday  Evening  Post  by  an  aero- 
plane company  which  offered  training  for  reserve  avi- 
ators. Failing  at  first  to  get  the  desired  information,  he 
communicated  wdth  the  War  Department,  the  three  univer- 
sities with  which  he  had  been  connected,  and  the  federal 
recruiting  office  at  Denver.  In  April,  1917,  one  of  his 
letters  to  Washington  was  answered  and  late  in  May  he 
received  instructions  to  report  for  examination  at  Fort 
Omaha,  Nebraska,  on  June  5.  "I  wanted  so  much  to  get 
into  aviation  service,"  he  wrote  in  a  diary  he  was  keeping 
at  this  time,  "because  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  one 
life  I  had  would  be  able  to  render  a  service  there  many 
times  greater  than  anywhere  else." 

Having  passed  his  examinations  for  the  aviation  service 
he  was  detailed  after  settling  his  affairs  at  Ouray,  to 
Austin,  Texas,  for  ground  training.  From  August,  1917, 
until  he  met  his  death  June  1,  1918,  in  an  aeroplane  acci- 
dent near  Chateau-roux  in  France,  where  he  was  flying 
for  his  last  half-hour  of  training,  having  received  his  com- 
mission as  second  lieutenant  in  the  Air  Service,  May  18, 
his  experiences  were  largely  those  of  the  routine  of  prepa- 
ration for  the  aviator's  work  at  the  front.  A  comrade 
through  all  this  period  has  related  its  circumstances  in  the 
following  letter : 



Dallas,  Texas, 
August  2,1919. 

Jeff  and  I  were  classmates  in  the  ground  school  at  Austin. 
I  remember  the  day  he  entered,  as  we  had  adjoining  bunks. 
We  studied  at  the  same  table  and  ate  adjoining  each  other  at 
the  mess,  so  I  probably  knew  him  better  than  any  other  cadet 
in  the  school,  with  one  exception.  At  ground  school  Jeff  was 
the  best  student  in  his  class;  he  was  a  model  pupil  and  held 
the  respect  of  all  his  teachers  and  classmates.  On  our  gradua- 
tion, October  21,  1917,  we  were  allowed  two  days  at  home  and 
on  or  about  October  24  we,  the  class,  were  sent  in  a  private  car 
to  Garden  City,  New  York.  There  we  waited  until  November 
23,  all  anxious  and  eager  to  get  over  in  France  to  do  our  part 
against  the  Huns. 

We  landed  in  Liverpool  December  7,  having  a  pleasant  trip 
across  on  the  good  ship  Baltic.  From  Liverpool  we  were  sent 
to  Winchester,  a  big  rest  camp  a  few  miles  southwest  from 
London.  There  we  first  tasted  the  privation  of  war,  there  being 
little  fuel,  lights,  or  pleasure  to  hasten  or  make  pleasant  those 
bitterly  cold,  gloomy  days  of  December.  The  British  were  low 
in  spirit  on  account  of  the  Cambrai  failure  and  then  and  there 
we  realized  that  we  were  up  against  a  strong,  powerful  enemy. 
From  Southampton  we  sailed  to  Le  Havre,  crossing  the  rough 
channel  on  a  cattle  boat,  cold  and  crowded.  We  slept  eleven 
men  to  the  tent  in  Le  Havre  and  there  we  first  learned  that  we 
were  classed  as  enlisted  men  and  went  through  all  the  hard  work, 
discipline,  and  drill  of  any  other  enlisted  man.  At  last  we  were 
sent  to  St.  Maixent,  a  charming  little  town  in  between  Poitiers 
and  Niort.  W^e  had  hopes  there  was  a  flying  school  there,  but 
we  soon  realized  that  we  were  in  the  most  inefficient  branch  of 
the  Army  and  it  would  be  months  before  we  began  our  training. 
We  did  guard  duty,  fatigue,  drilled,  and  unloaded  provisions, 
cooked,  etc.,  from  December  to  April. 

In  April  about  ten  of  us  were  sent  to  Chateau-roux  to  be 
attached  to  the  French  Army  for  our  flying.    Jeff  was  put  in 



charge  of  the  detachment,  although  I  was  a  sergeant  and  out- 
ranked him.  This  shows  how  capable  and  responsible  he  was. 
He  conducted  us  to  Chateau-roux  and  remained  in  charge  of  us 
until  his  death.  Jeff  was  a  good  pilot.  He  finished  his  brevet 
ahead  of  time  and  had  to  do  some  extra  flying  to  make  up  the 
required  twenty-five  hours  of  actual  time  in  the  air.  On  the 
day  of  his  death  he  was  out  taking  pictures  with  his  kodak.  He 
evidently  flew  too  low,  for  he  slid  over  a  wing  and,  not  having 
altitude,  crashed  into  the  ground  before  he  could  regain  con- 
trol of  his  airplane.  His  airplane  was  a  Caudron,  a  machine 
tried  and  tested  and  a  good  one.  No  one  tampered  with  his 
machine,  and  he  had  absolutely  not  an  enemy  in  France  as  far 
as  I  know.  His  death  was  due,  no  doubt,  to  over-confidence, 
for  little  did  we  know  then  in  our  enthusiasm  the  necessity,  so 
well  drilled  in,  but  to  no  effect,  of  the  danger  of  flying  low.  Jeff 
in  his  enthusiasm  for  taking  pictures  forgot  his  altitude  and 
crashed  into  the  ground. 

He  was  buried  with  full  military  honors,  and  cadets  and  the 
French  officers  and  the  French  people  covered  his  coffin  with 
floral  wreaths.  His  grave  is  well  marked,  and  along  with  the 
other  cadets  killed  at  Chateau-roux  he  sleeps. 

In  September,  1920,  his  body  was  returned  to  the 
United  States  and  funeral  services  were  held  on  October 
10,  at  the  home  of  his  parents  in  Boonville,  Indiana.  "He 
was  a  Christian  that  lived  up  to  his  faith,"  wrote  the 
friend  who  has  just  been  quoted,  "  and  a  soldier  that  knew 
no  fear." 



Class  of  1908 

X  HiLip  Washburn  Davis,  born  at  West  Newton, 
Massachusetts,  March  10,  1888,  was  a  son  of  Samuel  War- 
ren Davis,  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1877,  a  teacher  in  the 
Newton  High  School  for  most  of  his  life,  and  for  many 
years  head  of  its  Department  of  Latin.  Mary  Elizabeth 
(Washburn)  Davis,  his  wife,  died  in  1896.  Philip  Wash- 
burn Davis's   older  sister,   Amelia  Washburn  Davis,   a 



Y.  M.  C.  A.  canteen  and  library  worker  in  France  during 
the  greater  part  of  her  brother's  service  as  an  aviator  over- 
seas, has  written  a  personal  letter  about  him,  portions  of 
which  may  well  be  repeated  here,  though  some  of  the  facts 
to  which  she  refers  anticipate  the  story  still  to  be  told. 

My  brother  was  a  boy  of  strong  affections  and  enthusiasms, 
but  restrained,  as  the  best  New  Englanders  are.  He  had  a 
burning  passion  for  justice  and  an  adventurous  spirit  which  was 
masked  to  some  extent  b^^  nonchalant  humor  and  argumentative 
contrasts.  He  quite  casually  mentioned  to  me  that  he  had  ap- 
plied for  service  in  the  United  States  Aviation  as  soon  as  we  de- 
clared war,  and  never  referred  to  it  again  to  anybody,  as  far  as 
I  can  learn.  He  received  no  reply,  and  the  next  I  knew  of  his 
plans,  he  was  signing  up  with  the  Norton-Harjes  Ambulance 
Unit.  If  the  French  Aviation  was  in  his  mind  before  he  started, 
he  never  told;  but  he  certainly  signed  up  with  them  as  soon 
as  he  could  on  arrival.  He  told  us  that  he  had  found  the  need 
greater  than  was  understood  over  here,  the  Ambulance  Service 
not  the  best  he  could  give,  and  ambulance  men  talking  of  going 
over  for  a  good  time!    That  settled  it  for  him. 

As  a  little  boy,  my  brother  was  very  sensitive  and  responsive 
to  fine  things,  fond  of  stories,  but  especially  fond  of  games,  and 
how  hard  and  well  he  did  play !  He  kept  right  on  being  a  good 
sport,  and  college  and  business  developed  social  qualities  which 
overcame  his  extreme  shyness,  but  left  him  with  a  pleasant  dif- 
fidence in  meeting  people.  His  combination  of  gentleness  with 
high  spirits  made  him  generally  attractive.  Life  was  very  much 
of  a  game  to  him,  and  because  he  possessed  a  good  mixture  of 
caution  and  dash,  victory  often  came  to  him.  It  was  character- 
istic of  him  to  want  to  get  to  the  top,  not  to  beat  other  people 
but  to  do  whatever  he  did  as  well  as  it  could  be  done.  .  .  . 

He  was  faithful  not  only  to  the  big  loyalties  and  duties,  but 
to  the  little  things  which  so  many  men  neglect.  He  had  a  tre- 
mendous sense  of  justice,  and  I  should  not  give  the  right  im- 



pression  of  him  if  I  suppressed  his  vehement  expression  of 
opinion.  If,  on  further  evidence,  he  changed  his  opinion,  he 
recorded  the  fact.  He  did  not  complain  about  personal  hard- 
ships, and  they  were  pretty  severe,  at  Plessis-Belleville,  for  in- 
stance. Clean  and  healthy,  and  appreciating  the  good  things 
of  life,  he  nevertheless  prided  himself  on  being  able  to  adapt  him- 
self to  changed  conditions. 

So  he  appeared  in  retrospect  to  one  who  knew  him  most 
completely.  The  outward  circumstances  of  his  life  before 
the  war  may  be  briefly  summarized.  Like  his  father  be- 
fore him,  he  made  his  preparation  for  college  at  the  New- 
ton High  School.  Entering  Harvard  in  1904,  he  graduated 
cum  laude,  in  1908.  In  his  junior  and  senior  years,  re- 
spectively, he  won  the  benefits  of  the  John  Appleton 
Haven  and  C.  L.  Jones  Scholarships.  In  his  senior  year, 
besides,  he  was  named  for  a  Disquisition.  His  athletic 
interests  were  those  of  track  (hurdling)  and  tennis,  in  each 
of  which  he  was  proficient;  nor  did  his  tennis  playing 
cease  with  college.  On  his  graduation  he  entered  the  Boston 
office  of  Lee,  Higginson  and  Company,  with  which  he  re- 
mained for  two  years.  After  this  experience,  and  an  as- 
sociation with  a  smaller  house,  he  became  a  partner  in  the 
investment  firm  of  Chamberlain  and  Davis,  with  which 
he  was  associated  when  the  United  States  joined  the  bel- 
ligerent nations. 

Of  Davis's  activities  and  characteristics  during  this 
period,  and  with  special  reference  to  his  business  partner- 
ship, it  is  written  in  the  Decennial  Report  of  the  Class  of 

The  certain  and  rapid  success  of  that  business  is  shown  not 
so  much  by  the  financial  good  standing  which  he  fairly  won  as 



by  the  confidence  and  respect  of  his  clients.  That  their  inter- 
ests were  his  own,  and  that  his  sound  judgment  and  prompt 
decision  were  always  at  their  service,  is  attested  by  the  many 
letters  received  by  members  of  his  family.  They  express  not 
only  regret  for  the  loss  of  a  man  of  sterling  character  and  fine 
personality,  but  a  very  personal  bereavement  on  the  part  of 
those  who  had  come  to  depend  upon  his  advice.  These  letters 
surely  prove  the  usefulness  of  the  honorable  business  man.  Giv- 
ing himself  whole-heartedly  to  business,  and  working  early  and 
late  when  its  needs  required,  he  nevertheless  found  time  for  a 
surprising  number  of  avocations.  He  was  keenly  alive  to  all 
interests  of  the  day,  without  losing  his  love  of  poetry,  plays,  and 
economic  theory.  He  could  enjoy  a  game  of  chess  at  breakfast 
and  still  not  neglect  the  morning  paper,  and  would  dash  off  to 
business  just  as  merry  and  eager  at  one  pursuit  as  at  another. 
His  athletic  activities  never  flagged.  He  belonged  to  several 
tennis  clubs  and  won  some  local  tournaments.  He  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  First  Corps,  Cadets. 

Davis  made  his  first  attempt  to  enter  the  aviation  serv- 
ice on  the  very  day  after  the  United  States  declared  war. 
His  next  step  has  already  been  mentioned.  In  "Har- 
vard's Military  Record  in  the  World  War"  the  essential 
facts  of  his  military  record  are  given  as  follows:  "En- 
listed private  Foreign  Legion,  June  9,  1917;  transferred  to 
Aviation  Service  and  detailed  to  Schools  of  Military  Avia- 
tion, Avord  and  Pan,  June  15  to  October  28;  breveted 
pilot  October  26  and  promoted  corporal;  detailed  to  Aerial 
Gunnery  School,  Cazaux;  honorably  discharged  February 
1918.  Commissioned  2d  Lieutenant  Aviation  Section, 
Signal  Corps,  February  23,  1918,  in  France;  assigned  to 
94th  Pursuit  Squadron  April  1;  killed  in  action  June  2, 
1918,  in  Toul  Sector."  His  training  at  Cazaux  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  brief  period  at  G.  D.  E.  (Le  Plessis-Belleville). 



In  "The  Lafayette  Flying  Corps"  the  following  character- 
ization of  him,  embodying  the  impression  he  made  upon 
his  aviation  comrades,  is  found: 

Davis  was  older  than  most  of  those  who  went  through  the 
schools  with  him,  less  boisterous  and  less  given  to  dissertation 
on  his  flying  prowess.  Quiet  and  pleasant  in  manner,  he  was  one 
of  the  coolest  and  steadiest  of  pilots,  completing  with  honor  the 
difficult  Bleriot  training  and  leaving  an  excellent  record  at  Pau. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  who  have  little  to  say,  but  may  be 
counted  on  in  any  emergency.  After  his  transfer  to  the  United 
States  Air  Service,  Davis  went  to  the  front  with  the  94th  Pur- 
suit Squadron,  then  operating  in  the  Toul  Sector.  On  June  2, 
1918,  while  protecting  an  English  bombing  flight,  he  attacked 
six  German  single-seaters  and  was  shot  down  in  Hames  within 
the  enemy  lines. 

Philip  Davis  is  mourned  by  the  many  friends  to  whom  his 
fine  qualities  had  endeared  him.  At  his  death  the  Service  lost 
a  very  gallant  officer,  under  whose  serene  and  quizzical  exterior 
lay  a  true  devotion  to  duty  and  the  steadfast  courage  which 
asks  no  odds  of  Fate. 

There  is,  besides,  in  the  Decennial  Report  of  the  Class 
of  1908,  a  letter  from  Major  Douglas  Campbell  (Harvard, 
'17),  American  ace,  a  portion  of  which  serves  well  to  place 
Davis  among  his  filing  comrades : 

The  94th  Aero  Squadron,  later  famous  as  Eddie  Ricken- 
backer's  outfit,  was  organized  and  sent  to  the  front  in  March, 
1918,  as  the  first  really  American  air  unit  to  get  into  action.  There 
were  eighteen  pilots  in  the  squadron  who  had  just  finished  their 
schooling  and  were  anxious  to  learn  the  game  of  knocking  Huns 
out  of  the  sky,  and  Phil  Davis  and  myself  were  two  of  them.  We 
were  assigned  to  the  3d  flight,  or  subdivision,  of  the  squadron, 
with  the  result  that  we  generally  went  on  the  same  patrols; 
consequently  I  knew  Phil  pretty  well     There  is  something  about 



flying  over  the  lines  with  a  man  which  draws  you  to  him,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  you  are  not  in  speaking  contact  with  him  at  the 
time.  Quiet  and  unobtrusive,  but  a  hard,  conscientious  worker, 
Phil  soon  made  a  warm  place  for  himself  in  my  heart  and  in 
those  of  the  other  members  of  our  eager  and  enthusiastic  family 
of  prospective  Boche-getters. 

With  passages  from  a  journal  which  Davis  kept  in 
France,  and  from  his  letters,  it  is  possible  and  profitable 
to  clothe  these  external  records  and  impressions  with  some- 
thing of  his  personality.  The  following  quotations  speak 
for  themselves : 

Saturday  I  went  up  to  Dr.  Gros'  again  and  after  trying  my 
eyes  again,  he  said,  no,  it  was  too  bad,  but  I  could  n't  get  by. 
I  talked  with  him  a  while,  told  him  I  was  good  at  tennis  and 
seemed  to  be  able  to  see  perfectly.  Finally  he  said,  "Well, 
stand  up  near  and  read  it  with  both  eyes,"  which  I  naturally 
did,  as  I  could  read  it  way  back  with  my  left  eye.  And  so  I  got 
by  and  signed  up  with  the  Lafayette  Flying  Corps,  Now  I  am 
waiting  to  hear  from  the  French  Government  in  regard  to  my 
application.  I  think  there  is  no  danger  of  not  being  accepted 
after  Dr.  Gros'  approval. 

June  8,  1917. 

I  sometimes  wonder  what  kind  of  a  mess  things  will  be  in 
when  the  war  is  over.  Will  the  soldiers  go  back  to  work,  for  when 
one  thinks  of  it,  they  have  been  leading  a  lazy,  easy  life  of  it, 
and  not  so  much  excitement  as  one  might  think  either.  And,  too, 
will  the  women  go  back  to  the  homes?  They  have  found  out 
that  they  can  run  things  just  as  well  as  men. 

On  the  other  hand,  will  the  war  ever  be  over  or  will  it  end  in 
a  compromise  and  break  out  again?  The  plight  of  the  Allies  ap- 
pears to  be  much  worse  than  I  had  imagined.  An  old  ambulance 
driver  who  is  now  going  into  the  aviation  told  me  that  he  thought 
that  the  morale  of  the  Germans  is  better  than  that  of  the  Allies, 



They  have  stopped  everything  that  the  Allies  have  started,  they 
are  relying  on  their  submarine  campaign  with  the  greatest  con- 
fidence, and  lastly  they  are  held  better  in  hand —  they  are  not 
such  independent  thinkers.  He  says  that  he  thinks  the  Allies 
would  have  quit  if  the  United  States  had  not  come  into  the  fight. 
France  does  seem  to  have  great  confidence  in  what  we  are  go- 
ing to  be  able  to  do  to  help  them. 

June  2^. 
The  people  at  home  simply  cannot  sympathize  fully  in  this 
great  struggle,  separated  from  the  conflict  by  the  expanse  of  the 
Atlantic  Ocean.  When  the  Army  gets  over  here  and  friends  and 
relatives  begin  to  get  killed,  things  will  be  different.  This  is  the 
way  I  understood  the  situation :  —  My  position  in  the  reserves 
was  uncertain.  Nobody  knew  what  was  going  to  be  or  could  be 
done  with  them.  The  only  reason  I  was  glad  to  get  away  was 
so  that  I  would  not  have  the  uncertainty  hanging  over  me  all 
the  time  with  the  chance  of  doing  guard  duty  at  the  East  Boston 

Gas  Works  during  the  whole  war.    You  remember  M did 

not  know  whether  he  was  going  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  Plattsburg 

or  not.    I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  E saying  that  I 

was  right  in  what  I  said  about  the  federal  oath  last  summer  and 
bewailing  his  fate  that  the  red  tape  stopped  him  from  going  to 
Plattsburg  until  it  was  too  late     Now  he  expects  to  go  to  war 

as  a  private  under  the  command  of  D or  W — —  or  some  of 

the  other  boys  who  did  not  take  the  oath.  Of  course  if  they 
want  me  back  I  will  come,  but  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  likeli- 
hood of  it  now,  inasmuch  as  there  is  no  possibility  of  getting  any 
such  training  for  war  aviation  in  the  United  States  as  here. 
When  I  came  over  here  I  was  to  enlist  for  six  months'  service. 
As  things  have  come  out  I  have  felt  called  upon  to  enlist  for 
the  duration  of  the  war.  I  do  not  like  to  be  a  pessimist,  but  if 
the  war  lasts  long,  in  this  aviation  game,  —  well,  they  have  to 
keep  training  a  bunch  of  new  pilots  for  service  at  the  front. 
What  new  rulings  they  have  made  in  regard  to  the  Guard  Re- 
serve I  don't  know.    Mr.  C.  is  doubtless  right  in  what  he  says. 



It  is  no  more  than  I  expected,  that  we  would  be  called  out  just 
like  ordinary  citizens,  regardless  of  our  training. 

July  34. 
Instead  of  having  too  much  time  on  my  hands,  I  have  too 
little  now.  You  see  I  have  learned  just  enough  about  avion 
motors  and  compliances  and  mitrailleuses  so  that  I  know  where 
to  go  to  get  more  information  and  what  books  to  read.  The 
evolution  of  the  airplane  is  marvellous.  A  machine  is  out  of 
date  in  two  months.  First  the  Germans  have  one  that  the 
French  can't  touch,  and  then  the  French  have  one  that  the  Ger- 
mans can't  get  near.  When  I  first  came  down  here  they  had 
just  got  out  a  new  machine  that  was  supposed  to  beat  every- 
thing up  to  that  time.  Now  a  new  model  of  another  machine 
is  about  to  displace  that.  The  way  they  keep  cutting  down  the 
wings  I  think  soon  they  will  have  nothing  but  a  box  and  motor. 
The  tremendous  speed  that  is  necessary  to  keep  these  almost 
wingless  fellows  in  the  air  makes  landing  difficult.  One  has  to 
leave  and  approach  the  ground  at  seventy  miles  an  hour.  A 
less  speed  means  pancaking,  and,  of  course,  a  smash. 

Juhj  28. 
The  machine  we  are  driving  now  is  somewhat  different  from 
the  penguin.  It  will  fly  all  right.  I  went  off  the  ground  five  or 
six  feet,  much  to  the  monitor's  disgust  this  morning.  I  told 
you  how  one  of  the  fellows  smashed  on  his  first  sortie.  It  was 
most  artistic  too.  The  oldest  men  even  claimed  it  was  the  most 
complete  wreck  they  had  ever  seen.  Nothing  was  left  intact. 
You  see  he  went  into  the  ground  with  full  motor  on,  an  unpar- 
donable offense.  I  saw  a  lieutenant  turn  upside  down  today. 
He  made  a  very  poor  attervisage,  as  they  call  it,  and  bounced  up 
about  thirty  feet.  He  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  put  on 
his  motor  and  save  himself,  but  he  smashed  one  wheel  all  to 
pieces  the  first  time,  so  we  watched  to  see  what  would  happen 
on  the  second  landing.  The  result  was  just  what  might  be  ex- 
pected, he  came  down  perfectly  and  redressed  all  right.     But 



when  he  settled  on  to  the  ground,  naturally  there  was  a  sort  of 
one  sided  flop,  and  over  she  went.  When  he  crawled  out  from 
under,  he  looked  just  as  crestfallen  as  I  felt  after  my  experience 
with  the  penguin. 

Camp  Avord,  Cher. 

September  26,  1917. 

Two  or  three  weeks  ago  I  read  in  the  Outlook  a  fragment 
entitled  "The  Diary  of  a  Coward."  As  the  editor  suggested,  it 
struck  me  that  the  man  was  not  a  coward  at  all.  I  have  since 
wondered  whether  I  judged  him  leniently  because  my  own  sen- 
sations are  not  dissimilar  to  his. 

I  did  not  have  the  same  choice  that  he  did.  I  was  called  upon 
to  enter  the  fray  from  a  sense  of  duty.  The  question  with  me 
was  whether  to  go  into  this,  as  it  appears  to  me,  the  most  dan- 
gerous branch  of  the  service,  aviation.  I  chose  it  partly  be- 
cause it  seemed  the  most  valuable  thing  to  do  and  one  for  which 
I  was  rather  well  suited,  partly  because  it  was  a  very  interesting 
pursuit,  in  which  I  should  not  fret  with  inaction  as  I  should  in 
other  branches  of  the  service,  as  I  very  well  know  from  my  ex- 
perience in  the  militia. 

I  feel  that  I  have  gone  into  something  which  will  probably 
cause  my  death  in  a  longer  or  shorter  space  of  time,  if  I  continue 
in  it,  and  that  I  intend  to  do.  If  the  war  lasts  a  year,  a  mighty 
small  number  of  aviators  now  in  training  for  the  front  are  going 
to  go  back  home,  I  'm  thinking.  Now  the  prospect  of  death  gives 
me  a  disagreeable  feeling.  I  don't  want  to  die.  I  avoid  taking 
chances  of  getting  killed.  I  feel  confident,  however,  that  my 
sense  of  duty,  or  is  it  horror  of  the  shame  of  being  thought  the 
coward?  —  I  can  scarcely  discriminate  sometimes  —  will  always 
overweight  this  fear  and  keep  me  on  my  course. 

For  all  this,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  there  is  forever  a  sword 
above  my  head.  On  the  contrary,  with  easy  lack  of  foresight,  I 
forget  the  danger  that  I  face,  I  put  it  aside,  I  refuse  to  admit  its 
presence.  I  have  accustomed  myself  to  more  dangerous  con- 
ditions than  I  had  previously  lived  under  and  I  expect  to  ac- 



custom  myself  to  still  more  dangerous  ones  so  that  I  can  live 
in  comfort  even  then.    We  have  that  to  see. 

When  I  step  into  the  machine  for  my  tour  I  am  less  nervous 
I  think  than  the  average  student  pilote  here.  I  am  no  more 
nervous  than  when  I  line  up  on  the  cinder  track  to  hear  the 
starter's  pistol.  Once  away  in  the  air  I  am  just  as  eager  and 
interested  as  ever  I  was  to  run  a  foot  race  or  to  play  a  tennis 
match.  Yet  if  I  thought  of  my  chances  of  breaking  my  neck, 
I  wonder  how  I  should  feel.  Sometimes  I  say  —  now  I  will  say 
to  myself  "Suppose  this  wire  should  break  or  the  machine 
should  catch  fire."  Still  I  refuse,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
to  harbor  the  possibility  of  such  events. 

If  I  live  through  this  experience,  it  will  perhaps  be  as  much 
pleasure  to  me  to  read  these  lines  as  it  would  have  been  to  the 
"Coward"  to  have  read  what  he  had  written,  had  he  lived.  If 
I  meet  his  fate  somebody  else  may  read  this,  with  I  hope  a  little 
respect.  An  expression  of  honest  feeling,  however  crudely  ex- 
pressed, should  be  valuable  by  its  rarity. 

The  Germans,  in  my  opinion  are  fundamentally  wrong  in 
their  impression  of  the  relation  between  the  state  and  the  in- 
dividual, but  I  am  not  sure  that  that  people  is  not  better  off  that 
worships  the  state  as  a  god  than  a  race  that  is  so  enamoured  of 
individual  freedom  that  it  cannot  make  sacrifices  to  preserve  it. 

BouRGES,  November  21,  1917. 

Ely  and  I  were  to  fly  together  and  were  to  meet  1000  metres 
above  Latlas,  or  however  the  little  town  is  spelled.  We  had 
arranged  to  go  to  Lourdes.  We  went  all  right;  but  as  we  had 
different  ideas  of  where  the  town  lay  we  did  n't  stay  together 
long.  I  went  down  the  river  but  did  n't  find  Lourdes,  as  the 
town  was  the  other  way.  However,  I  found  another  town  off 
across  the  country  which  I  have  since  found  out  was  Daz.  It 
lies  on  each  side  of  a  little  river.  There  seems  to  be  a  trolley 
connecting  the  two  parts  of  the  town.  After  leaving  Daz  I 
headed  for  the  Pyrenees  and  let  the  machine  climb.  When  I 
got  up  to  '2000  metres  I  noticed  over  toward  the  mountains  an 



edge  of  white  which  proved  to  be  clouds.  Below  was  a  dull  haze, 
through  which  it  was  impossible  to  see  clearly,  in  fact  the  moun- 
tains were  not  visible.  Above,  however,  the  peaks  showed  forth 
as  distinctly  as  could  be  through  a  clear  atmosphere.  As  I 
climbed  and  looked  down  on  the  field  of  clouds  which  extended 
away  from  the  peaks  for  some  miles  I  was  more  and  more  happy 
to  think  that  I  was  having  the  opportunity  of  seeing  such  a  sight. 
I  let  the  machine  get  up  to  5000  metres  and  then  slid  back  home 
in  one  steady  pique.  Ely  and  I  had  been  out  two  and  one-half 
hours,  but  we  put  down  our  time  as  an  hour  and  a  half  so  as  to 
get  as  much  flying  as  possible. 

The  next  day  Ely  and  I  met  again  but  did  n't  stay  together 
as  he  wanted  to  go  to  the  Pyrenees  and  I  to  Lourdes.  I  took  in 
all  the  little  towns  up  the  valley  above  Pau  to  Lourdes  and 
cruised  in  among  the  foot-hills  of  the  Pyrenees  at  a  low  altitude. 
Here  again  I  put  in  over  two  hours  but  counted  it  as  an  hour 
and  a  half.  In  the  afternoon  we  were  to  do  another  hour  but 
put  in  about  two  hours  practising  spirales  over  all  the  towns  in 
the  valley. 

The  next  day  we  had  vol  de  groupe  in  the  15  metres  110  H.  P. 
I  was  chef  de  groupe  and  had  two  Frenchmen  with  me.  We  all 
wanted  to  go  to  Biarritz  and  for  once  did  our  work  right,  meet- 
ing as  agreed  and  flying  in  perfect  formation  the  whole  way.  It 
was  a  fine  trip  and  a  great  sight  to  see  the  old  sea  once  more. 
Biarritz  looks  pretty  from  the  air,  the  light-house,  the  beach, 
and  cliffs.  Bayonne  too  shows  out  clearly  at  the  mouth  of  the 
river.  One  of  the  others  and  I  flew  out  well  over  the  ocean  and 
spiraled  down  to  see  the  town.  A  walk  down  the  cliff  shows  out 
like  a  big  S.  On  the  way  back  I  slowed  down  and  waved  to  the 
other  fellow  to  go  ahead  so  that  I  could  have  some  practice  fol- 
lowing. At  the  end  I  stopped  to  practise  spiraling.  I  made  a 
continuous  left  and  then  immediate  right  without  stopping  and 
did  n't  lose  my  stick  as  the  fellows  all  claimed  I  would.  I  also 
slowed  it  down  to  all  but  a  standstill  and  then  piqued  sharply 
and  speeded  it  up  again. 



In  the  afternoon  Ely  and  I  were  to  fly  together  again  but  he 
said  he  was  not  going  to  do  any  more  foohsh  tricks  and  I  wanted 
to  go  over  to  the  Pyrenees  again.  It  is  wonderful  over  among 
those  mountains.  I  went  over  past  the  range  of  mountains  be- 
yond the  Pic  du  Midi  d'Ossau,  over  Spain  and  looked  down  the 
valleys  on  the  other  side.  What  a  long  time  it  seems  to  take  to 
come  to  that  peak,  but  how  you  do  tear  by  when  you  get  there ! 
One  would  n't  have  much  luck  landing  en  panne  up  in  those 
snowy  mountains.  You  can  see  a  lot  of  country  from  an  aero- 
plane. It  is  interesting  to  see  the  little  French  settlements  way 
up  on  the  mountain  slopes,  ten  or  twelve  houses  and  a  group  of 
cultivated  fields.  Then  there  is  the  road  and  railroad  way  down 
in  the  valley  leading  up  to  the  Pic  du  Midi  with  little  villages 
here  and  there.  I  flew  most  at  3600  to  3800  metres  just  under 
the  clouds  where  it  was  very  rough,  I  will  say.  It  seemed  as 
though  I  would  hit  the  ranges  as  I  came  to  them  although  as  a 
matter  of  fact  Midi  is  only  2885  and  is  the  highest  right  there. 

Pau,  Basses  Pyrenees, 

December  1,  1917. 

Since  living  with  the  French  here  at  Pau  I  have  experienced 
another  change  in  my  feelings  toward  them,  finding  them  not 
such  bad  sports  after  all.  We  meet  a  much  better  type  down 
here,  fellows  who  have  much  more  ability  in  aviation  and  also 
what  is  best  of  all,  a  mighty  good  sense  of  humor. 

What  leads  to  a  great  deal  of  misunderstanding  is  our  lack  of 
knowledge  of  the  French  language.  I  learned  more  French  in 
the  first  two  days  here  than  in  the  preceding  five  months,  being 
in  a  barrack  with  about  thirty  Frenchmen  and  only  six  Ameri- 
cans. I  would  have  been  sorry  to  have  had  to  move  into  this 
barrack  of  Americans  only,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  we 
were  imposing  on  the  Frenchmen  every  night  when  we  opened 
up  the  windows.    How  those  boys  do  hate  fresh  cold  air! 

My  feeling  towards  the  Germans  has  changed  a  great  deal 
too.  I  am  getting  sick  of  all  this  propaganda  against  them.  Bet- 
ter give  them  their  due.    They  started  a  lot  of  things  which  the 



Allies  have  since  adopted,  and  this  propaganda  is  one  of  them. 
The  Allies  have  seen  its  effectiveness  and  have  been  forced  to 
employ  the  same  tactics  themselves.  Most  of  these  stories  about 
the  cruelty  of  the  Germans  are  talk  or  find  parallels  on  the  side 
of  the  Allies.  The  Allies  tell  about  the  Boche  dropping  bombs 
on  a  hospital;  but  they  don't  say  that  there  was  a  big  munition 
station  which  was  placed  right  beside  the  hospital  and  in  its 
shelter,  which  was  the  Germans'  real  objective.  I  am  just  as 
much  opposed  to  the  German  idea  and  its  system  and  just  as 
much  determined  to  do  my  share  to  help  overthrow  the  system, 
even  while  I  admire  its  effectiveness;  but  that  the  Germans  are 
fiends,  or  any  different  from  the  men  who  are  fighting  on  the 
side  of  the  Allies,  I  cannot  see. 

January  20,  1918. 

Pick  Chapman  and  I  are  still  looking  for  jail  though  we  may 
have  escaped.  We  landed  in  Le  Plessis-Belleville  on  the  ap- 
pointed day,  the  13th,  and  signed  up  but  as  our  baggage  had 
not  come  from  Cazaux  we  refused  to  go  out  to  Verrines.  The 
next  day  we  decided  to  go  back  to  Paris  and  see  if  we  could  sign 
up  in  the  naval  aviation  rather  than  continue  in  this  uncertainty. 

Of  course  we  had  no  tickets  or  'permissions.  We  had  no 
trouble  getting  on  the  train  at  Plessis,  just  walking  around  a 
barn  to  the  track  as  the  train  came  in.  We  did,  however,  have 
a  narrow  escape  getting  out  at  Paris.  We  intended  to  get  out 
at  the  station  before  Paris,  but  finding  that  it  was  way  up  above 
the  street  and  enclosed  by  a  high  iron  fence  we  decided  to  take 
our  chances  in  the  big  station. 

We  walked  down  the  platform  with  the  rest  of  the  people 
until  we  got  near  the  gate  where  they  were  taking  tickets.  Then 
we  began  cutting  across  the  tracks  which  were  depressed  a  bit 
and  made  us  an  object  of  more  or  less  suspicion.  Pick  dove 
through  another  gate,  which  by  the  best  of  luck  was  open,  with 
me  about  four  yards  in  back  of  him.  Then  I  heard  the  guard 
calling  ''Billets,  billets.''     Pick   looked  around   and  increased 



his  pace  and  I  did  n't  lose  any  distance  to  him,  I  can  say.  Then 
the  guard  took  to  crying  "Teekets,  teekets,"  but  I  never  looked 
to  right  or  left,  although  all  the  people  in  front  of  me  looked 
around.  So  Pick  and  I  kept  irresistibly  on  and  shooting  be- 
tween two  gendarmes,  who  had  no  time  to  ask  us  for  our  'per- 
missions, were  shortly  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

They  were  taking  no  more  pilotes  in  the  naval  aviation,  how- 
ever, so  in  a  way  we  had  our  trip  for  nothing,  except  a  good  meal 
at  Drouant's  and  a  good  bed  and  bath  at  the  Hotel  Madison. 

The  Americans  are  not  in  high  favor  here.  Our  treatment  is 
very  different  from  that  which  we  enjoyed  at  Cazaux,  where  we 
were  treated  like  guests  and  ate  at  the  sous-qfficiers^  mess. 

Gengoult,  just  outside  of  Toul, 
April  12,  1918. 

When  I  read  these  newspapers  I  certainly  get  hot.  I  don't 
see  where  we  can  give  ourselves  any  particular  credit  over  the 
Germans.  As  far  as  the  Government  deceiving  the  people  is  con- 
cerned, we  are  in  as  bad  a  case  as  they  are.  Whenever  we  hear 
of  "the  enemy  suffering  heavy  losses,"  we  know  that  they  have 
advanced  ten  or  fifteen  kilometres.  Strategic  retreat  and 
strategic  out-salients  always  produce  a  smile.  If  we  could  be- 
lieve accounts  every  German  on  the  face  of  the  earth  would  be 
dead  by  now.  Yet  they  tell  us  that  there  are  three  Boches  for 
every  two  of  the  Allies  on  the  W^estern  Front.    Can  you  beat  it? 

On  the  same  page  of  the  paper  one  reads  "Huns  bomb  Paris. 
Sixty  women  and  children  victims  of  barbarous  attacks."  "Our 
airmen  do  fine  work.  Two  hundred  kilos  of  explosives  dropped 
on  German  towns." 

After  this  war  is  over  I  hope  the  people  will  cook  this  deceit 
on  the  part  of  their  governors.  I  hope  they  will  insist  on  getting 
the  truth,  good  news  and  bad  impartially. 

Sometime  I  am  going  to  take  time  to  write  some  of  the  stories 
I  have  heard  in  this  aviation  game. 



Gengoult,  Toul, 
April  28,  1918. 

I  sometimes  think  that  the  Germans  will  win  this  war  even  if 
they  lose.  We  pretend  to  be  fighting  for  democracy  but  we  are 
adopting  all  the  methods  of  the  so  hated  Prussian  aristocracy. 

The  worst  of  all  is  the  way  our  war  lords  are  deceiving  the 
people.  I  do  not  complain  that  each  one  of  us  is  in  entire  igno- 
rance of  what  is  going  on  around  us.  I  will  even  submit  to  the 
senseless  eccentricities  of  the  censorship.  But  news  at  least  can 
be  truthful.  Events  past  and  over  with  can  be  told  whether 
good  or  bad. 

Are  we  a  race  of  babies,  of  quitters,  that  we  must  have  our 
courage  buoyed  up  by  false  assertions  of  success?  Would  we 
not  fight  the  harder  and  the  more  determinedly  if  we  hear  of 
failures  and  misfortunes?  These  things  are  but  to  be  overcome. 
Many  a  sluggard  back  home  perhaps  would  be  aroused  from 
his  indolence  to  turn  back  the  tide  sweeping  in  upon  us. 

Yet  on  our  bulletin  board  is  a  notice:  "Never  criticize  your 
superiors  or  express  your  opinion  on  the  conduct  of  the  war. 
Avoid  giving  the  impression  of  pessimism  by  your  words  and 

The  attitude  of  our  leaders  is  shown  in  the  newspapers.  De- 
feats are  smothered  up  as  long  as  possible.  Reports  of  victories 
are  allowed  to  be  published  no  matter  how  unfounded  on  fact. 
We  know  little  except  what  happens  near  us ;  yet  how  different 
are  the  newspaper  stories  from  the  actual  facts. 

The  censorship  finds  it  impossible  to  stop  the  publication  of 
the  rumor  that  the  Americans  captured  200,000  Germans,  in- 
cluding the  Crown  Prince,  but  succeeded  in  preventing  the 
publication  of  the  fact  that  the  Germans  went  through  to  the 
American  third  line  trenches  and  that  the  French  were  called 
in  to  save  the  situation. 

No  wonder  the  people  back  home  think  our  boys  are  a 
race  of  demi-gods  and  that  a  handful  of  them  are  enough  to 
throw  back  the  invading  Huns.     No  wonder  they  lie  back 



and  say,  "This  thing  will  be  finished  up  soon  without  effort  on 
our  part." 

The  worst  sort  of  pessimism  is  fear  of  pessimism.  There  is 
something  the  matter  with  leaders  whose  actions  cannot  be 
talked  about. 

I  thought  I  was  fighting  for  personal  liberty,  for  individual- 
ism.   Where  is  our  victory  if  this  is  gone? 

The  French  have  not  given  up  their  personal  rights  and  yet 
have  shown  themselves  the  best  fighters.  May  we  imitate  them 
rather  than  the  Prussians. 

The  old  Lafayette  Flying  Corps  is  sufl^ering  its  losses  these 
days.  Chuck  Kerwood  got  his  a  little  while  ago.  Woodward  is 
missing  and  now  Stanley  writes  that  Herm  Whitmore  is  missing. 
Hitchcock  has  been  missing  some  time  after  getting  two  Bodies. 
Collins  was  brought  down  after  getting  three  Boches.  Collins, 
Hitchcock,  and  Whitmore  were  great  pilots  too. 

Dinsmore  Ely  has  just  been  killed  in  an  accident  at  Villa- 
coublay.    Some  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the  bunch  have  gone. 

Dave  Putnam  has  certainly  made  up  for  some.  He  has 
brought  down  about  eight  Boches  now.  According  to  the  pa- 
pers. Rat  Booth  has  brought  down  his  second  Boche  and  is  get- 
ting married  to  celebrate.  Duke  Sinclair  was  over  on  the  piste 
the  other  day.  He  has  a  Boche,  a  croix  de  guerre  at  any  rate. 
He  refuses  to  accept  an  immediate  sous-lieutenancy  because  he 
wants  to  get  three  Boches  first  and  a  medaille  militaire. 

Gengoult,  Toul, 
May  5,  1918. 

The  war  is  claiming  victims  near  at  home  now.  Pick  Chap- 
man was  brought  down  in  the  German  lines  two  days  ago.  He 
was  the  one  fellow  I  was  most  intimate  with,  a  fine  boy,  too,  and 
most  pleasing  companion. 

We  came  over  on  the  Chicago  at  the  same  time.  We  were 
together  at  Avord  and  roomed  together  in  the  old  stable  bar- 
racks in  the  artillery  camp.  We  were  at  Pau  together  and  at 
Cazaux.    Of  our  seven  at  Cazaux,  three  have  gone,  Pick,  Dins- 



more  Ely,  and  Herm  Whitmore,  three  of  the  best  too.  Then  we 
were  at  Plessis-Belleville  together  and  left  to  join  the  American 
Army.  We  were  at  Issoudun  and  roomed  together  at  Villeneuve 
and  here.  My  other  room-mate,  Cunningham,  is  going  to  leave 
soon  on  account  of  his  eyes  so  that  I  shall  be  quite  lonely. 

This  squadron  certainly  has  its  hands  full  in  good  weather 
and  when  they  want  us  to  furnish  a  patrol  down  to  the  east  of 
Luneville  also,  they  surely  can  figure  that  we  are  earning  our  pay 
even  with  the  flying  premium  which  we  are  not  getting.  Before 
the  good  weather  started,  everybody  wanted  to  go  up  on  all  the 
alerts  that  came  in.  Now  some  of  us,  of  whom  I  admit  I  am 
one,  are  not  too  sorry  to  see  a  little  rain  so  that  we  can  rest  up 
a  bit. 

The  way  the  squadron  works  is  as  follows:  it  is  divided  into 
three  flights  of  six  men  each,  a  captain  and  five  lieutenants; 
one  flight  is  on  duty  from  daylight  till  10  a.m.,  that  means  get- 
ting up  at  4.30  A.M.;  one  flight  from  10  a.m.  to  3  p.m.,  and  one 
flight  from  3  p.m.  until  dark,  a  little  after  8  p.m.  These  hours 
are  getting  longer  every  day.  Each  flight  changes  its  hours  of 
duty  each  day,  so  that  each  has  the  daylight  patrol  one  day  in 
three.  Every  day  that  we  are  on  it  is  just  good  enough  weather 
so  that  we  have  to  get  up  but  bad  enough  so  that  we  can't  do 

Our  duty  consists  of  waiting  around  to  answer  alerts  —  re- 
ports of  Bodies  inside  our  lines  —  most  of  which  are  erroneous 
or  fruitless.  Sometimes  we  make  patrols.  Just  as  the  good 
weather  started  they  demanded  a  patrol  from  us  for  the  Ameri- 
can sector  east  of  Luneville.  So  one  flight  took  that,  one  was 
on  from  daylight  to  noon  and  one  from  noon  to  dark. 

Our  flight  has  only  four  men  now,  as  Pick  has  been  brought 
down  and  Cunningham  has  n't  done  any  flying  for  some  time. 

The  day  before  Pick  was  brought  down  I  had  a  peculiar  ex- 
perience. Jim  Meissner,  Bill  Loomis,  and  I  were  working  for 
another  flight  as  their  machines  were  out  of  commission.  We 
were  to  go  up  twenty  minutes  after  two  Salmsons  and  fly  a  little 



way  into  Germany  to  lend  them  a  bit  of  moral  support.  Bill 
had  to  come  back  on  account  of  motor  trouble.  Jim  and  I  went 
up  and  crossed  the  lines  around  Pont-a-Mousson.  We  were 
flying  west  and  a  bit  north  when  I  saw  two  planes  flying  towards 
us  but  a  little  south.  I  thought  they  were  the  Salmsons  as  we 
were  a  little  above  5000  metres,  the  height  at  which  they  were 
supposed  to  be  flying,  but  to  make  sure  I  dove  down  under  Jim 
to  attract  his  attention  and  then  flew  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
two  planes. 

I  got  in  back  of  the  second  plane  and  pulled  up  near  and  saw 
the  French  cocardes  on  the  wings,  so  flew  over  it  and  to  the  right 
to  join  Jim  who  was  way  out  in  front.  What  was  my  surprise 
to  see  him  attacking  the  other  machine.  "The  darn  fool  is 
attacking  a  French  plane, "  I  said  to  myself.  Just  then  the  plane 
went  into  a  vrille,  a  very  slow  one  too,  which  gave  me  time  to 
pull  up  on  him,  and  sure  enough  I  saw  the  German  insignia  on 
the  black  wings,  not  even  crosses  but  a  white  diamond  with  per- 
haps a  little  cross  in  the  middle.  As  the  Boche  came  out  of  the 
vrille,  Jim  shot  again.  The  Boche  piqued,  smoke  came  out  at 
the  left  and  then  flames.  As  Jim  dove  under  I  piqued  on  the 
Boche  but  did  n't  fire,  as  I  figured  he  was  finished  anyway 
and  I  did  n't  want  to  hone  in  on  Jim's  credit.  I  pulled  up  and 
saw  Jim  come  around  and  give  the  Boche  another  round.  He 
was  taking  no  chances  on  his  first  Boche.  After  that  the  Boche 
was  falling  pretty  fast.  I  went  through  a  lot  of  burned  wing 
cloth  and  leveled  out  at  about  3000  metres.  I  saw  Jim  going 
off  toward  France  but  stayed  around  a  little  while  to  see  the 
Boche  crash  in  a  wood  in  the  German  lines. 

When  I  landed,  the  Boche  had  already  been  confirmed,  but 
Jim  was  not  back.  We  were  quite  worried  for  a  time  because 
the  machine  seemed  like  a  biplane  and  Jim's  second  attack  was 
from  above.  However  we  heard  from  him  shortly  that  he  was 
en  panne  with  a  broken  wing.  It  seems  that  on  his  last  dive  he 
passed  under  the  Boche  so  close  that  their  wings  hit  and  his 
lower  wing  was  torn  and  loosened  a  little. 



Gengoult,  Toul, 
May  17,  1918. 

Eddie  Rickenbacker  had  his  fill  of  excitement  this  morning. 
He  attacked  three  Bodies.  As  he  was  piquing,  one  of  them 
pulled  up  in  front  of  him  and  there  was  a  collision  in  which  the 
Boche  lost  his  tail  and  the  leading  edge  of  Ed's  upper  wing  was 
smashed  all  to  pieces  as  far  back  as  the  struts.  He  fell  in  a 
vrille  1600  metres,  but  finally  pulled  out  of  it.  He  had  to  keep 
his  motor  on  full  so  as  to  keep  his  machine  right  side  up.  We 
were  all  surprised  to  see  him  coming  in  with  full  motor  only 
couping  a  couple  of  feet  off  the  ground.  I  guess  the  Boche 
got  his  all  right. 

You  can't  beat  Doug  Campbell  much  for  recklessness.  He  had 
a  fight  with  two  Albatross  biplanes  yesterday,  over  Thiaucourt, 
without  casualties  on  either  side.  He  said  "I  guess  they  sent 
them  up  to  fight.    I  waited  there  about  half  an  hour." 

May  21,  1918. 

This  stretch  of  good  weather  has  kept  us  busy  enough.  We 
could  stand  a  little  bad  weather  very  well  too.  Some  events 
have  taken  place  too,  the  most  important  was  Major  Lufbery's 
death.  A  German  biplane  came  down  between  1500  and  1000 
metres  right  over  Toul.  He  certainly  had  plenty  of  nerve.  One 
of  the  anti-aircraft  bursts  must  have  worried  him  a  little  though. 
It  turned  him  right  up  on  end  and  he  fell  50  or  100  metres  be- 
fore he  righted  himself.  Jay  Gude  attacked  him  unsuccessfully 
and  then  Major  Lufbery  attacked  him  twice  and  was  brought 
down  in  flames.  He  jumped  out  of  the  machine  at  about  600 
metres.  The  German  went  on  over  Nancy  where  he  was  brought 
down  by  a  Frenchman  who  had  four  Bodies  to  his  credit 

A  little  later  Doug  Campbell  went  out  and  brought  down  a 
biplane  on  the  French  side  of  the  lines.  His  brother  was  out 
here  visiting  him  and  they  both  went  out  in  a  machine  and  got 



some  fine  souvenirs,  including  the  oflScer's  pilot's  badge  and  two 
ribbons,  iron  cross  and  something  else. 

A  Rumpler  came  down  in  a  vrille  from  5000  metres  and  the 
pilot  was  n't  hurt.  We  learned  from  him  that  Captain  Hall  is 
all  right,  only  a  slight  wound  in  the  foot.  So  we  had  a  pretty 
busy  Sunday. 

Our  flight  was  on  yesterday  morning  so  we  figured  of  course 
we  could  go  to  Lufbery's  funeral,  which  was  to  be  at  4.  p.m.  But 
at  2.30  P.M.  we  received  orders  from  the  Group  Headquarters 
that  we  were  to  be  on  the  alerte  in  addition  to  the  other  flight. 
What  soft  brains  those  fellows  are!  They  were  afraid  that  going 
to  the  funeral  would  be  bad  for  our  morale.  At  3.45  they  re- 
lieved us  from  duty  with  instructions  that  only  one  flight  was 
to  assist  at  the  funeral.  However,  we  jumped  into  an  auto  and 
went  to  the  funeral.  We  fellows  of  the  94th  appreciate  him 
anyway.  He  was  a  wonderful  pilot  and  a  fine  fellow^  to  be  with. 
He  kept  rather  to  himself  but  he  was  pleasant  to  be  with.  He 
never  said  much  and  was  very  modest.  It  was  always  very 
difficult  to  get  him  to  tell  about  his  experiences  which  really 
were  worth  listening  to.  He  started  on  a  biplane  Voisin.  His 
first  flight  was  in  this  machine  over  Metz.  He  used  to  have  a 
machine  gunner  whose  eyes  were  so  bad  that  he  could  n't  tell 
Allied  planes  from  Boches  and  he  used  to  ask  Lufbery  whether 

to  shoot  or  not. 

May  25,  1918. 

Elsie  Janis  was  out  to  lunch  here  again  today.  Later  she  was 
out  on  the  field  and  climbed  into  my  machine  (putting  her  foot 
through  the  cloth  of  the  wing  in  the  process).  I  was  not  present 
but  they  tell  me  that  the  mechanos  gathered  from  far  and  near. 

I  should  like  to  have  a  moving  picture  of  an  aviator  flying 
over  the  lines,  doubling  back  and  forth  and  always  looking  back 
over  his  shoulder.  If  Darwin  is  worth  anything  the  race  of 
aviators  will  develop  the  necks  of  owls. 



Ju7ie  1,  1918. 

Doug  Campbell  brought  down  another  biplane  yesterday. 
He  said  it  was  the  first  one  he  ever  felt  sorry  for.  After  the  ma- 
chine gunner  had  shot  all  his  cartridges,  he  stood  up  straight 
in  the  pit  with  one  hand  on  his  hip  and  the  other  resting  on  the 
gun  rail  while  he  watched  calmly  as  Doug  poured  the  bullets 
into  the  machine.  The  machine  fell  in  the  French  lines  finally. 
The  machine  gunner  was  an  oher  lieutenant. 

Joe  Eastman  had  a  fight  with  the  other  biplane  (which  was 
with  the  one  that  Doug  brought  down).  He  got  rather  the 
worst  of  the  encounter,  though  we  did  n't  find  any  holes  in  his 
plane.  My  motor  quit  just  about  five  minutes  before  the  fight 
and  I  was  staggering  home  when  it  took  place.  If  I  had  been 
with  Joe  on  the  biplane,  we  might  have  had  him  worried  be- 
tween us. 

On  the  very  day  after  writing  these  words,  Davis, 
smitten  again  and  again  by  the  death  of  his  friends  in  the 
94th  Squadron,  met  his  own.  Of  the  circumstances  at- 
tending it,  and  of  Davis  himself,  a  surviving  comrade, 
Lieutenant  Arthur  Lawrence  Cunningham,  (Harvard,  '18) 
has  written: 

I  had  the  good  fortune  to  know  Davis  more  or  less  intimately 
during  our  mutual  training  period  in  the  Lafayette  Flying  Corps, 
and  later  became  quite  intimate  with  him  in  the  94th  American 
Pursuit  Squadron. 

On  the  Toul  front  where  the  94th  first  went  into  action,  Davis 
and  Chapman,  who  was  killed  a  month  later,  and  I  were  room 
mates.  We  played  bridge  a  good  deal  together,  and  Davis 
carried  on  quite  an  extensive  correspondence.  He  was  a  little 
older  than  Chapman  and  I,  and  took  the  war  a  great  deal  more 
seriously.  A  business  man  and  over  thirty  years  of  age,  studi- 
ous in  his  habits  and  matured  in  thought  and  speech,  he  had 



volunteered  in  the  French  Army  and  entered  the  most  hazard- 
ous branch  of  the  service,  while  others  of  his  age  and  in  his  posi- 
tion contented  themselves  with  smugly  asserting  in  no  weak 
whisper  that  they  were  doing  their  bit  in  tending  assiduously 
to  business,  living  "Christian"  and  patriotic  lives,  and  contrib- 
uting their  tithe  in  interest  paying  bonds.  But  Davis  thought 
and  acted  differently.  His  quiet  physical  courage  was  equalled 
only  by  his  conception  of  duty  to  his  country.  He  believed 
religiously  in  the  cause  for  which  he  was  fighting,  and  I  some- 
times think  that  he  would  have  asked  no  better  death  than  to 
die  as  he  did  high  in  the  air,  his  glorious  ideals  of  humankind 
and  its  purposes  still  intact. 

I  remember  the  day  of  his  death.  One  Sunday  afternoon, 
the  first  of  June,  Davis  and  1  were  dozing  in  our  room.  The 
flight  to  which  we  belonged  had  been  on  "alert"  from  dawn  till 
nearly  noon,  and  had  made  two  patrols.  Just  before  noon  we 
were  relieved  and  returned  to  the  barracks  thinking  our  day's 
work  done.  In  mid-afternoon,  however,  our  flight  leader,  Doug- 
las Campbell,  aroused  us.  A  special  call  had  come  in  for  a 
flight  to  escort  a  British  bombing  squadron  across  the  lines, 
and  our  flight  was  the  only  one  available. 

Davis  and  I  walked  across  the  field  to  the  hangars.  The 
weather  was  beautiful,  the  air  tranquil;  the  field  through  which 
we  were  passing  was  bright  with  flowers  and  alive  with  the  hum 
of  insects.  The  peasants  of  the  neighborhood  in  Sunday  best 
had  gathered  around  the  planes  in  curious  groups.  So  peaceful 
and  removed  from  all  traces  of  war  was  the  atmosphere  that 
Davis  contrasted,  in  what  were  to  be  his  last  words  to  me,  the 
scene  about  us  with  the  front  a  few  miles  to  the  north,  and 
characteristically  remarked  how  lucky  we  were  to  be  in  the  air 
service  instead  of  among  those  poor  devils  in  the  trenches. 

A  few  minutes  later  four  of  us,  Campbell,  Eastman,  Davis, 
and  I,  were  in  the  air  and  on  our  way  to  the  lines.  These  we 
crossed  at  an  altitude  of  18,000  feet,  and  cruised  into  German 
territory.     A  few  kilometres  farther  and  before  we  had  yet 



sighted  the  British  bombers,  Campbell  spied  a  flight  of  Boche 
machines  at  a  considerable  distance  below  us,  and  immediately 
dove  to  attack,  the  three  of  us  after  him.  In  the  melee  that 
followed,  I  lost  sight  of  Davis.  We  were  nothing  but  a  whirl  of 
machines  diving,  firing,  and  zooming  up  again.  After  a  few  min- 
utes of  this  the  enemy,  six  in  number,  turned  tail  and  scudded 
back  into  Germany.  I  pulled  up,  and  looked  around  for  the 
rest  of  the  flight.  A  plane,  which  I  found  out  afterwards  was 
Campbell's,  was  above  me  and  at  a  considerable  distance  to  the 
east;  I  could  not  locate  Eastman,  while  Davis,  recognizable  by 
the  large  number  on  the  fuselage  of  his  machine,  was  quite  near 
me  and  on  the  same  level.  We  drew  together  until  about  fifty 
feet  separated  us,  then  started  to  join  Campbell.  Suddenly  a 
tiny  flame  spurted  out  of  Davis's  machine  just  behind  the  pilot's 
seat,  and  began  to  lick  its  way  around  the  fuselage.  Instantly 
he  dove  towards  the  earth.  Powerless  and  horrified  I  followed. 
A  few  hundred  feet  further  down  his  machine  burst  into  a  mass 
of  flames  and  then  and  there  I  think  Davis's  brave  soul  sped 
forth;  for  the  machine,  out  of  all  control,  dropped  into  a  vrille 
or  nose  spin;  righted  itself,  slid  off  on  what  was  left  of  its  wings, 
and  dropped  again  into  a  vrille.  It  continued  to  fall  tumbling 
from  vrille  to  wing  slide,  then  back  again  to  vrille  until  it  crashed 
in  a  little  meadow  a  few  miles  back  of  the  German  lines  and  at 
the  edge  of  a  wood.  I  saw  some  human  figures  running  towards 
it,  but  could  distinguish  nothing  else.  I  circled  overhead  for 
the  next  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  while  the  machine  smoked  and 
smouldered  on  the  ground. 

Weeks  later  we  learned  from  the  Germans  that  Davis  had 
been  taken  from  his  machine  and  buried.  During  the  fight  he 
had  been  wounded  in  the  leg,  and  an  incendiary  bullet,  lodged 
somewhere  in  his  plane,  had  finally  set  it  afire. 

Another  fellow-oflBcer  of  the  Lafayette  Escadrille,  Lieu- 
tenant William  F.  Loomis,  wrote  to  Davis's  sister:  "This 
brother  of  yours  was  the  best  friend  I  had  here  in  France, 



and  I  can  in  a  measure  realize  what  his  loss  means  to  vou. 
In  response  to  a  thorough  belief  which  I  have  in  the  in- 
evitable verity  of  things,  I  know  that  his  supreme  sacrifice 
has  not  been  in  vain.  He  has  covered  himself  with  a  glory 
far  beyond  our  comprehension." 

Davis  fell  between  St.  Mihiel  and  Pont-a-Mousson,  and 
is  buried  at  Richecourt,  Meuse,  near  the  Bois  de  Burly, 
called  Burlywald  in  the  German  notification  of  his  death. 
The  ground  containing  his  grave,  purchased  by  his  sister, 
is  under  the  care  of  the  mayor  of  Richecourt. 



Class  of  1890 

VTUY  Norman  had  the  uncommon  distinction  among 
Harvard  men  of  serving  as  an  ofRcer  of  the  United  States 
Navy  on  active  duty  in  two  wars.  He  belonged  to  the 
Harvard  generation  of  young  men  to  whom  the  Spanish 
War  gave  its  opportunity,  and  it  is  a  notable  fact  that  five 
Norman  brothers,  all  Harvard  men,  of  whom  he  was  one. 



took  part  in  that  war.  Twenty  years  later  he  was  ready 
to  serve  again. 

He  was  born  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  July  7,  1868,  a 
son  of  the  late  George  H.  Norman,  a  conspicuous  figure  in 
Rhode  Island  affairs,  and  Abbie  Durfee  (Kinsley)  Norman. 
After  attending  various  schools  in  Germany  and  the  United 
States,  including  the  John  P.  Hopkinson  School  in  Boston, 
he  entered  Harvard  with  the  Class  of  1890,  with  which  he 
graduated.  In  college  he  belonged  to  the  Institute  of  1770 
and  D.  K.  E.,  the  Deutscher  Verein,  the  Polo,  Shooting, 
Art,  Hasty  Pudding,  and  Porcellian  Clubs. 

Entering  the  business  of  a  broker  and  banker  on  leaving 
Harvard,  he  became  a  member  of  the  Boston  and  New 
York  Stock  Exchanges,  a  director  of  corporations,  and  a 
trustee,  with  Boston  as  his  place  of  business.  On  Septem- 
ber 9,  1893,  he  was  married  at  Beverly  Farms,  Massachu- 
setts, to  Louisa  Palfrey.  Their  only  child  is  the  wife  of 
Elliot  C.  Bacon,  '10. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  war  with  Spain,  Norman,  always 
an  enthusiastic  yachtsman,  passed  the  examinations  which 
secured  him  the  commission  of  ensign  in  the  United  States 
Navy,  and  was  assigned  to  duty  on  the  battleship  loiva, 
commanded  by  Captain  Robley  D.  Evans.  On  this  vessel 
he  served  throughout  the  war  in  various  capacities,  includ- 
ing watch  and  division  officer,  and  took  part  in  the  Battle 
of  Santiago.  Honorably  discharged  from  active  duty  at  the 
end  of  the  war,  he  remained  an  ensign  of  the  U.  S.  Naval 
Reserve  Force.  Though  his  business  interests  centered  in 
Boston,  he  lived  chiefly  in  Newport  and  Washington. 

When  the  United  States  entered  the  World  War,  Nor- 
man was  a  member  of  the  Rhode  Island  Senate,  not  witli- 



out  expectations  of  becoming  a  member  of  the  national 
House  of  Representatives  from  the  Newport  district.  He 
had  entered  pohtics  late,  but  his  friends  had  good  reason 
to  believe  that  his  matured  capacities  would  enable  him  to 
serve  the  public  to  excellent  purpose.  Called  from  the  re- 
serve to  the  active  force  of  the  Navy  in  May,  1917,  he  re- 
signed his  seat  in  the  state  Senate,  and  eagerly  took  up  his 
new  duties.  His  constituents  declined  to  choose  another 
senator  in  his  place,  and  his  colleagues  expressed  their 
appreciation  of  his  course  by  passing  an  appropriate  reso- 
lution and  draping  his  desk  in  the  Senate  Chamber  with  a 
service  flag.  Apropos  of  his  brief  career  in  politics  the 
Providence  Journal  described  him,  after  his  death,  as  "a 
refreshing  figure  in  the  public  life  of  Rhode  Island,"  and 
proceeded : 

He  entered  the  Legislature  from  no  motive  of  self-seeking, 
but  for  the  sole  purpose  of  contributing  whatever  of  strength  or 
talent  he  had  to  the  common  welfare.  Elected  to  the  Senate  as 
a  Republican,  he  refused  to  take  orders  from  the  party  mana- 
gers, and  to  the  close  of  his  service  at  the  State  House  retained  his 
personal  independence  and  self-respect.  He  had  no  enemies  out- 
side of  politics,  and  in  politics  only  such  as  were  affected  by  his 
vigorous  opposition  to  dangerous  and  improper  methods.  The 
sincerity  of  his  aims  was  never  questioned. 

Reentering  the  Navy  with  the  rank  of  ensign,  Norman 
was  promoted  lieutenant,  junior  grade,  in  October,  1917, 
and  lieutenant,  February,  1918.  His  first  service,  on  the 
cruiser  North  Carolina,  lasted  from  May,  1917,  to  March, 
1918,  and  involved  five  trips  to  the  danger  zone  on  escort 
duty.  From  the  North  Carolina  he  was  transferred  to  the 
battleship  Oklahoma  of  the  Atlantic  Fleet.     Norman  was 



thus  in  the  way  of  seeing  more  and  important  service  in  the 
convoying  of  troop-ships  across  the  Atlantic  when  the 
state  of  his  health,  which  for  two  years  past  had  not  been 
good,  obliged  him  to  ask  for  sick  leave  in  the  hope  that  an 
operation  would  restore  his  physical  condition.  The  leave 
was  granted  May  15,  and  the  operation  was  soon  per- 
formed in  Boston.  There,  on  June  3,  1918,  he  died  at  the 
Massachusetts  General  Hospital.  Two  days  later  the  offi- 
cers of  the  Ward  Room  Mess  of  the  North  Carolina  testified 
to  their  feeling  about  Norman  by  writing  to  his  widow: 
"We  are  proud  to  have  known  him.  There  was  a  self- 
forgetful  devotion  in  his  service,  and  a  genial  friendliness 
in  his  nature,  which  will  keep  us  from  forgetting  him.  He 
was  always  anxious  to  be  doing  more  than  his  share,  never 
careful  for  his  own  strength.  Our  lives  must  always  be 
more  true  when  we  remember  that  here  in  our  midst,  he 
gave  his  life,  in  very  truth,  for  the  country  he  loved." 



Class  of  1916 

A  SON  of  William  Sharpless  Jackson  and  Helen  Fisk 
(Banfield)  Jackson,  a  brother  of  William  Sharpless  Jack- 
son, Jr.  (Harvard,  '11),  Roland  Jackson  was  born  at  Colo- 
rado Springs,  Colorado,  January  4,  1893.  He  prepared 
himself  for  college  at  the  Cutter  School,  Colorado  Springs, 
where  he  was  an  excellent  student  and  popular  among  his 
classmates.  For  two  years,  1910-12,  he  attended  Colo- 
rado College.  In  the  autumn  of  191'2  he  entered  Harvard 
with  the  Class  of  1916.  He  took  his  degree  of  A.B.,  magna 
cum  laude,  at  the  end  of  three  years,  in  the  first  of  which 
he  won  a  John  Harvard  Scholarship  and  a  Detur,  in  the 
second  a  Harvard  College  Scholarship,  in  the  third  his 
election  to  Phi  Beta  Kappa.    In  his  freshman  year  he  was 



a  member  of  the  rowing  squad  of  his  class,  served  as  ac- 
companist for  the  Glee  Club,  and  joined  in  the  work  of 
Phillips  Brooks  House.  He  belonged  to  the  Western, 
Musical,  and  Signet  Clubs.  He  devoted  his  summer  va- 
cations to  tutoring.  His  scholastic  attainments  were  high. 
Yet  it  is  written  of  him  in  the  Memorial  Report  of  his 
class  that  his  interests  "were  anything  but  confined  to 
studies.  He  was  very  much  of  a  musician  at  heart,  and 
spent  many  hours  a  day  at  the  piano.  .  .  .  His  greatest 
pleasure  was  perhaps  in  the  social  side  of  college  life.  He 
was  very  much  interested  in  getting  the  different  points  of 
view  of  the  many  diverse  types  of  personalities  about 
college,  and  was  a  most  sympathetic  and  delightful  com- 
panion at  all  times." 

In  the  same  Memorial  Report  from  which  these  words 
are  taken,  the  following  passage  is  found: 

After  graduating  from  college  at  the  end  of  junior  year,  he 
taught  school  for  one  winter  at  Pinehurst,  North  Carolina.  He 
had  become  much  interested  in  Spanish  while  at  college,  and 
was  anxious  to  have  a  first-hand  acquaintance  with  the  country 
as  well  as  the  language,  so  in  the  fall  of  1916  he  sailed  for  Spain. 
He  spent  some  eight  months  in  that  country,  studying  the 
language  and  living  for  the  greater  part  of  his  stay  with  a 
Spanish  family  in  Madrid.  He  was  immensely  interested  in 
the  life  of  the  people  and  their  temperament,  with  its  freedom 
from  care  and  its  complete  abandon.  He  worked  in  a  Spanish 
business  house  for  a  while,  and  in  June,  1917,  was  appointed 
a  secretary  to  the  American  Embassy.  The  life  of  the  Embassy, 
however,  with  its  many  intrigues  and  insincerities,  did  not  ap- 
peal to  him,  and  he  resigned  his  position  shortly  afterwards  and 
returned  to  this  country. 



It  was  a  country  at  war  in  which  he  found  himself, 
and  in  August,  1917,  he  entered  the  Second  Officers' 
Training  Camp  at  Fort  Sheridan,  IlHnois.  On  November 
30  he  was  commissioned  second  heutenant  of  infantry. 
His  fondness  for  outdoor  Hfe  and  exercise,  and  the  spirit 
of  adventure  that  was  in  him,  made  the  training  of  a  mih- 
tary  camp  a  congenial  experience,  and  his  own  wish  was 
gratified  when  he  was  ordered  to  France  almost  immedi- 
ately upon  receiving  his  commission. 

He  sailed  in  January,  1918,  as  a  casual,  and  was  detailed 
to  a  British  gun  school,  "His  letters  from  France"  —  to 
quote  again  from  the  1916  Memorial  Report  —  "are  full 
of  his  joy  in  the  army  life,  his  pleasure  and  interest  in  his 
fellow  soldiers,  and  his  delight  in  France  and  the  French 
people.  He  read  many  French  books  in  his  hours  off  duty, 
in  order  to  understand  better  their  point  of  view.  In  May 
he  wrote  to  his  sister :  '  I  am  gradually  carving  out  a  phi- 
losophy which  will  include  everything.'" 

It  was  in  May  also  that  he  was  assigned  to  Company  G, 
30th  Infantry,  3d  Division.  On  June  4,  his  regiment  was 
ordered  to  the  front  at  Chateau-Thierry.  There,  two  days 
later,  he  met  his  death,  the  circumstances  of  which  were 
related  as  follows  in  a  letter  signed  by  a  captain  and  three 
lieutenants  of  his  company: 

In  the  morning  of  June  6,  at  about  1  o'clock,  the  Germans 
began  a  fierce  bombardment  of  the  town  in  which  the  company 
was  billeted  for  the  night.  Lieutenant  Jackson  and  the  other 
officers  had  just  returned  from  duty  in  the  first  sector  of  the 
fight,  and  were  preparing  to  go  to  bed  for  the  night  when  a 
number  of  men  were  brought  in  to  us  for  first  aid  treatment. 
The  number  steadily  increased,  and  Lieutenant  Jackson  left 



the  room  to  attend  the  wounded  in  the  street.  As  he  emerged 
from  the  doorway  a  high  explosive  shell  burst  within  ten 
feet  of  him,  causing  his  instant  death  along  with  three  other 
officers.  .  .  . 

Lieutenant  Jackson  was  a  young  officer  who  was  held  in  the 
highest  esteem  by  all  with  whom  he  was  associated  and  all 
cherished  him  for  his  noble  and  manly  character,  as  well  as  for 
his  professional  ability  and  strict  attention  to  duty. 

His  death  occurred  near  Chateau-Thierry.  On  the 
next  day  he  and  the  three  officers  killed  with  him  were 
buried  in  a  little  orchard  near  by.  In  accordance  with 
Jackson's  own  desire,  no  funeral  services  were  held  over  his 
grave.  It  was  marked  with  a  wooden  cross,  to  which  his 
identification  tag  was  attached.  His  essential  vitality  is 
suggested  in  a  few  words  from  a  letter  written  by  one  of 
his  brothers:  "I  have  just  finished  probating  his  will  to- 
day. The  words  'Roland  Jackson,  deceased,'  seem  so 
antithetical  that  I  feel  as  if  I  was  lying  every  time  I  write 



Class  of  1912 

(jTORDON  Kaemmerling  was  born  August  29,  1891, 
at  Erie,  Pennsylvania,  the  second  son  of  Gustav  and 
Effie  (Barnhurst)  Kaemmerling.  His  father,  now  Rear- 
Admiral  Kaemmerling,  U.  S.  N.,  who  served  during  the 
war  as  chief  inspector  for  the  Navy  Department  in  the 
New  York  Shipbuilding  Corporation  yards  at  Camden, 
New  Jersey,  was  then  a  junior  engineer  officer  in  the  Navy, 
the  son  of  Colonel  Gustav  and  Gertrude  Kaemmerling, 
of  Tell  City,  Indiana.  Colonel  Kaemmerling  commanded 
the  9th  Ohio  Volunteers  throughout  most  of  the  Civil 
War,  and  was  of  German  birth,  having  come  to  this  coun- 
try in  the  exodus  following  the  revolt  of  1848  in  Germany. 
His  wife  was  of  Swiss  parentage.     In  the  ancestry  of 



EflSe  (Barnhurst)  Kaemmerling  there  was  a  blending  of 
English,  Dutch,  Scotch,  and  Welsh  blood.  Gordon  Kaem- 
merling's  slightly  older  brother  is  Gustav  Henry  Kaem- 
merling, also  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1912,  who  entered 
the  Marine  Corps  early  in  the  war,  and  attained  the  rank 
of  captain. 

But  for  a  year  in  Milwaukee,  Gordon  Kaemmerling's 
boyhood  was  spent  chiefly  in  Erie,  Pennsylvania,  the 
home  of  his  mother's  parents.  In  the  summer  he  and 
his  brother  joined  their  father  on  the  Massachusetts  coast, 
or  travelled  in  Canada  or  the  West,  or  attended  a  boy's 
camp  in  New  Hampshire.  He  gave  early  evidences  of 
marked  capacity.  Learning  to  read  and  write  at  home, 
he  entered  the  third  grade  of  the  Erie  schools  at  seven, 
together  with  his  brother,  and  thenceforth  usually  stood 
at  or  near  the  head  of  his  classes.  When  he  was  twelve, 
he  passed  the  entrance  examinations  for  the  Erie  High 
School,  standing  second  in  a  list  of  some  three  hundred 
and  fifty.  Several  years  earlier  he  and  his  brother  had 
begun  studying  the  piano.  After  a  year  or  two  Gordon 
forged  ahead  rapidly,  and  as  time  went  on  became  so  fond 
of  music  that  he  would  have  adopted  it  as  a  profession 
had  not  the  more  practical  judgment  of  his  father  over- 
ruled this  impulse.  Through  this  time  he  was  a  member 
of  the  boy  choir  and  Sunday  School  of  St.  Paul's  (Episco- 
pal) Church  at  Erie,  of  which  the  Rev.  Franklin  S.  Spald- 
ing, afterwards  Bishop  of  Utah,  was  then  the  rector.  But 
it  was  not  only  in  studies  and  music  that  he  excelled.  At 
Camp  Marienfeld,  near  Mount  Monadnock,  where  he 
passed  three  summers,  he  showed  unusual  athletic  ability, 
outclassing  the  juniors  of  his  own  age,  whom  he  surpassed 



in  size  and  strength,  and  holding  his  own  with  boys  much 
older  than  himself  —  and  this  not  in  any  one  sport,  but 
in  all. 

After  the  summer  of  1906,  he  entered  the  Morristown 
School,  Morristown,  New  Jersey,  where  he  rapidly  made 
himself  respected  both  as  student  and  as  athlete.     He 
made  the  football  team  at  once,  playing,  as  his  brother 
has  expressed  it,  "like  a  small  thunderbolt,"  and  enjoying 
the  physical  conflict  to  the  full.     In  the  spring  he  made 
both  the  baseball  and  track  teams,  and  finished  the  school 
year  by  passing  his  preliminary  examinations  for  Har- 
vard with  high  marks.    At  the  end  of  the  ensuing  summer 
at  Camp  Marienfeld,  a  physical  examination  revealed  a 
slight  heart-strain,  and  further  participation  in  athletics 
was  forbidden  him.     Perhaps  he  was  thus  the  freer  for 
his  final  year  of  school  work  at  Morristown,  where  he  un- 
dertook an  unusual  number  of  studies  and  mastered  them 
so  thoroughly  that  he  won  both  the  School  prize  for  the 
highest  average  scholarship  and  the  prize  offered  by  the 
Harvard  Club  of  New  Jersey  for  the  highest  mark  in  en- 
trance examinations  for  Harvard  attained  by  a  candidate 
from  that  state.     The  committee  that  awarded  the  prize 
defined  him  as  "a  remarkably  well-rounded  boy  of  excel- 
lent parts  and  sterling  character,"  and  in  recognition  of 
the  standing  of  both  Gordon  and  Gustav  Kaemmerling, 
said:    "It  is  a  rather  remarkable  coincidence  that  two 
brothers,  fitted  in  the  same  school,  applying  for  admission 
to  the  same  class  at  Harvard  should  take  first  and  second 
places  in  the  entrance  examination  of  all  applicants  from 
this  State,  and  that  the  younger,  who  was  only  sixteen 
years  and  ten  months  old  last  June,  should  be  first." 



It  has  been  said  of  Gordon  Kaemmerling  at  this  time 
that  "during  these  years  his  individuahty  was  crystallizing. 
He  always  showed  a  high  sense  of  honor,  and  a  modesty 
the  more  remarkable  in  view  of  his  unusual  variety  of 
attainments.  He  was  an  uncompromising  idealist,  simple 
in  his  tastes,  and  absolutely  without  the  affectations 
which  are  usually  normal  with  boys  of  his  age.  Prob- 
ably it  was  for  this  reason  that  he  was  popular  with  the 
quieter  souls,  and  especially  beloved  of  the  younger  boys." 

In  the  autumn  of  1908  he  entered  Harvard,  having  just 
passed  his  seventeenth  birthday.  He  and  his  brother 
roomed  together,  and  soon  began  to  collect  friends  and 
acquaintances,  old  and  new.  The  prohibition  against 
strenuous  athletics  still  being  in  effect,  Gordon  was  not 
allowed  to  take  up  football  or  track  work,  but  entered 
competition  for  the  freshman  basketball  team,  and  soon 
won  a  position  as  forward,  where  he  played  in  all  the 
games  that  year,  winding  up  by  participating  in  the  de- 
feat of  the  Yale  freshmen. 

His  years  in  college  were  quiet,  with  little  incident  for 
chronicling.  At  the  end  of  the  first  year  the  brothers  went 
to  the  Harvard  Engineering  Camp,  and  spent  most  of 
the  summer  there  taking  surveying  courses.  In  their 
sophomore  year  basketball  was  removed  from  the  list  of 
college  sports,  and  Gordon  spent  much  of  his  time  out  of 
doors,  tramping  about  the  country  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Cambridge.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with 
his  studies,  but  did  not  strive  to  attain  unusually  good 
marks.  He  had  a  remarkable  ability  to  untangle  the 
intricacies  of  mathematics,  and  in  his  second  summer  at 
the  Engineering  Camp  took  up  a  mathematical  course  in 



kinetics,  generally  considered  difficult,  and  made  a  per- 
fect mark  in  daily  work,  tests,  and  examinations,  to  the 
astonishment  of  his  instructor.  Oddly  enough,  he  had 
no  fondness  for  mathematics,  which  he  regarded  as  merely 
a  means  to  an  end. 

In  his  junior  year,  through  which  the  brothers  decided 
to  room  apart,  he  joined  the  Alpha  Phi  Sigma  Club,  and 
later  the  Sigma  Alpha  Epsilon  fraternity.  Toward  the 
end  of  the  year  he  went  out  for  track,  and  won  the  run- 
ning  broad  jump  in  a  handicap  meet.  A  slight  strain,  how- 
ever, prevented  his  winning  the  jump  in  the  Dartmouth 
meet,  shortly  afterwards,  and  ended  his  collegiate  athletic 

At  the  end  of  this  year,  he  had  completed  enough  courses 
to  secure  his  A.B.  degree,  and  after  spending  a  month  or 
two  at  Cambridge,  returned  to  Erie,  where  he  was  em- 
ployed first  by  the  Hayes  Manufacturing  Company,  and 
after  several  months  by  the  General  Electric  Company. 
In  1915  he  went  to  the  Alberger  Pump  and  Condenser 
Company,  spending  several  months  at  their  plant  in  New- 
burgh,  New  York,  and  then  entering  their  New  York 
office.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  in  this  period  he 
took  a  room  with  a  Colombian  family,  in  order  to  increase 
his  facility  in  Spanish,  which  he  had  been  studying  for 
some  time. 

In  the  summer  of  1916  he  attended  the  Plattsburg 
camp,  and  after  war  was  declared,  made  application  for 
the  first  1917  camp.  A  physical  disability  which  could 
be  corrected  by  an  operation  led  to  his  rejection.  The 
hospital  at  which  he  applied  for  admission  was  full,  but 
his  unremitting  insistence  opened  its  doors  to  him  and  he 



underwent  the  operation  at  once.  Fearful  lest  he  might 
be  too  late  for  the  first  camp,  which  was  just  beginning, 
he  left  the  hospital  when  just  about  able  to  walk,  and  re- 
ported immediately  at  Plattsburg.  The  doctors  there 
wanted  to  send  him  back  to  the  hospital,  but  gave  way  in 
the  face  of  his  firm  determination  to  stay.  His  vigor  re- 
turned rapidly,  and  he  devoted  himself  to  his  militarv 
studies  with  such  zeal  that  he  was  one  of  five  men  in  his 
company  to  whom  commissions  in  the  Regular  Army  were 
offered.  He  accepted  this  opportunity  as  affording  the 
quickest  path  to  the  front,  received  his  commission  as 
provisional  second  lieutenant,  and  was  ordered  to  the 
23d  Infantry  Regiment  then  at  Syracuse,  New  York. 
Joining  this  command  September  1,  he  was  assigned  to 
the  machine  gun  company.  Overseas  orders  came  almost 
at  once,  and  on  September  8  the  regiment  sailed  from 
Hoboken  on  the  U.  S.  S.  Pocahontas,  which  arrived  at  St. 
Nazaire,  September  20. 

From  St.  Nazaire,  Kaemmerling  proceeded  with  his 
comrades  in  arms,  to  Bourmont,  Haute  Marne,  where 
they  arrived  October  1.  Early  in  the  period  of  intensive 
training  which  then  began,  Kaemmerling's  commission 
as  provisional  second  lieutenant,  infantry,  in  the  Regular 
Army  was  issued.  On  January  2,  1918,  he  was  sent  to 
the  British  Physical  Training  and  Bayonet  School  at  St. 
Pol,  Pas-de-Calais,  where  he  remained  until  January  27. 
Returning  to  his  command  at  Goncourt,  he  was  assigned 
to  Company  M,  and  put  in  charge  of  bayonet  instruction 
for  the  3d  Battalion,  with  which  he  presently  went  into 
the  trenches  in  the  Verdun  sector.  There  he  remained 
from  April  3  until  about  May   10,   1918.     During  this 



period  and  thereafter  he  was  in  command  of  the  one- 
pound  platoon,  having  previously  taken  a  course  in  the 
operation  of  the  one-pounder,  and  was  consequently  as- 
signed to  Headquarters  Company.  On  April  1  he  was 
promoted  temporary  first  lieutenant,  to  date  from  October 
26,  1917. 

About  May  10  the  regiment  was  taken  out  of  the  line 
for  rest,  and  the  Headquarters  Company  went  to  Robert- 
Espagne.  On  May  20  it  went  by  train  to  Chaumont-en- 
Vexin,  northwest  of  Paris.  On  May  31  it  was  rushed 
toward  Chateau-Thierry  with  the  rest  of  the  2d  Divi- 
sion, reaching  its  position  in  support  late  in  the  day  of 
June  1.  Before  it  could  settle  down,  the  23d  was  rushed 
north  to  a  point  near  Germigny  early  on  June  2.  Being 
relieved  on  June  4-5,  it  returned  to  support  position  near 
Montreuil-aux-Lions,  and  the  1st  and  3d  Battalions  went 
into  the  line  almost  immediately. 

On  the  evening  of  June  6  an  attack  was  ordered.  Dur- 
ing the  course  of  this  attack  Kaemmerling  was  called  into 
a  conference  with  the  battalion  commander.  His  guns 
were  stationed  in  advanced  positions,  and,  while  returning 
to  them  across  a  field  covered  by  shell-fire  and  machine- 
gun  bullets,  he  was  struck  by  a  splinter  of  shell  and  killed 
instantly.  A  captain  of  the  23d  Regiment  afterwards 
described  the  circumstances  as  follows: 

I  last  saw  Gordon  at  10.15  on  the  night  of  June  6.  As  he 
passed  my  position  on  his  way  to  meet  the  battalion  com- 
mander, he  stopped  and  talked  to  me.  He  laughingly  told  me 
that  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  his  gun  in  No  Man's 
Land,  as  he  did  not  like  to  be  away  from  his  men  long. 

After  the  conference  he  started  back  through  a  field  literally 



covered  by  bursting  shell  and  machine-gun  fire.  From  the 
direction  in  which  he  was  going  and  the  location  of  the  wound, 
it  was  very  apparent  that  his  death  was  caused  by  a  high  ex- 
plosive shell,  bursting  either  directly  overhead  or  just  in  the 
rear,  as  I  know  that  he  was  headed  for  his  guns  further  forward, 
and  was  struck  in  the  back  just  below  the  shoulder-blade. 

From  all  appearances  he  evidently  died  instantly,  for  when 
I  saw  the  body  the  next  morning  it  was  nearly  cut  in  two  and 
riddled  with  machine-gun  bullets. 

He  was  buried  at  Le  Thiolet,  a  small  town  near  Chateau- 

Kaemmerling's  letters  from  France  were  always  cheer- 
ful, and  such  hardships  as  he  mentioned  were  described 
with  a  humorous  touch.  He  fell  in  love  with  France  at 
once,  and  wrote,  "I've  been  seeing  Parrish  seas  (also 
Sorolla),  Corot  trees,  and  Dore  skies.  This  is  a  dream 
country  that  I'd  love  to  play  in  in  peace  times."  There 
are  many  more  paragraphs,  expressing  his  delight  in  the 
quaintness  and  attractiveness  of  French  ways  and  people. 
He  also  enjoyed  his  contact  with  the  English,  of  whom  he 
says,  "The  more  I  saw  of  the  British,  the  more  I  liked 
them.  .  .  .  All  we  want  to  get  to  appreciate  the  British 
is  to  know  them  better."  He  often  spoke  of  the  men  under 
his  command  with  unbounded  enthusiasm,  describing  one 
after  another  to  point  his  remarks.  How  he  enjoyed  it  all 
was  revealed  in  such  declarations  as,  "I  wouldn't  give 
up  my  experiences  so  far  for  two  or  three  dull-gray 

The  affection  and  admiration  in  which  he  was  held  by 
the  officers  and  men  of  his  command  found  many  expres- 
sions. A  single  incident  related  by  David  Loring,  Jr. 
(Harvard,  '16),  commanding  officer  of  the  Headquarters 



Company  of  the  23d  Regiment  while  KaemmerHng  was 
attached  to  it,  is  characteristic.  RecalHng  a  certain  march, 
this  fellow-officer  wrote : 

There  occurred  a  little  incident  which  I  always  think  of  when 
I  think  of  Gordon.  It  was  a  very  hot  day.  The  previous  day 
the  men  had  been  paid,  and  were  now  suffering  from  the  results 
of  the  inevitable  pay-day  celebration.  Discipline  was  low,  and 
the  men  inclined  to  straggle.  .  .  .  One  man  who  was  really 
all  in  showed  signs  of  weakening,  and  Gordon  relieved  him  of 
his  pack  and  rifle  and  carried  them  for  several  miles  in  addition 
to  his  own  equipment.  At  the  next  halt  I  overheard  some  men 
discussing  it.  One  commented  on  it,  saying,  "That's  a  damn 
fine  lieutenant.  There  ain't  many  would  do  that."  ...  It 
was  typical  of  Gordon's  way  with  the  men,  and  their  attitude 
with  him. 

His  clean  enthusiasm,  his  love  of  beauty,  his  open-hearted 
friendship,  and,  above  all,  his  utter  devotion  to  his  country  and 
the  things  for  which  it  stood,  are  the  qualities  which  Kaem- 
merling's  friends  most  warmly  remember. 



Class  of  1916 

-L  H  E  only  son  of  John  Dwight  Filley  and  Fannie  (Doug- 
lass) Filley,  John  Dwight  Filley,  Jr.,  was  born  July  15, 
1893,  at  Ferguson,  a  suburb  of  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  the 
home  of  his  parents  throughout  his  life.  He  had  his  early 
schooling  at  a  kindergarten  and  the  Smith  Academy,  a 
St .  Louis  school  named  for  the  family  that  gave  the  Smith 
Freshman  Halls  to  Harvard.    At  twelve  he  went  to  Ham- 



let  Lodge,  at  Pomfret,  Connecticut,  and  afterwards  at- 
tended the  Pomfret  School  for  two  years.  When  these 
were  drawing  to  an  end  he  began  to  plan  for  entering 
Harvard  two  instead  of  three  years  later,  and  finding  that 
his  studies  at  Pomfret  could  not  be  arranged  to  this  end, 
wrote  of  his  own  motion,  and  without  the  approval  of  his 
parents,  to  the  Lake  Placid  School  in  the  Adirondacks, 
with  the  result  that  by  spending  a  summer  and  two  winters 
there  he  was  ready  to  begin  his  work  at  Harvard  in  1912, 
with  the  Class  of  1916. 

In  college  Filley  became  assistant  manager  of  the  fresh- 
man baseball  team  and  a  member  of  the  Institute  of  1770j 
D.  K.  E.,  Southern,  Hasty  Pudding,  and  Fox  Clubs. 
He  also  joined  Troop  B  of  the  Massachusetts  Cavalry, 
and  greatly  enjoyed  the  summer  encampments  of  that 
body.  In  the  summer  of  1915  he  was  one  of  the  under- 
graduates who  sailed  with  a  company  of  four  hundred 
Harvard  men  from  New  York  on  the  Finland  to  attend 
the  meeting  of  the  Associated  Harvard  Clubs  in  San 
Francisco,  and  shared  the  discomforts  and  pleasures  of 
the  delay  caused  by  a  landslide  in  the  Panama  Canal. 
After  the  San  Francisco  meeting  and  a  riding  trip  through 
the  Y^ellowstone  Park,  in  which  he  took  much  pleasure, 
he  joined  his  parents  at  Y^ork  Harbor,  Maine  —  and  few 
parents,  it  should  be  said,  have  ever  enjoyed  a  more  satis- 
fying relationship  with  a  son,  affectionate,  cheerful,  and 
bent  upon  meeting  the  expectations  of  his  father. 

Graduating  at  Harvard  in  1916,  he  attended  the  Platts- 
burg  Training  Camp  of  that  summer,  and  in  the  autumn 
entered  the  Brooklvn  works  of  the  American  Manufac- 
turing  Company,  of  which  his  father  is  president.     Be- 



ginning  at  the  bottom  of  this  business  of  making  cordage, 
bagging,  and  kindred  products,  Filley  was  promoted  three 
times  in  the  ten  months  that  passed  before  his  entering 
the  first  Plattsburg  camp  for  the  training  of  officers  that 
was  held  after  the  United  States  associated  itself  with  the 
Allies  in  the  war.  At  the  conclusion  of  this  camp  he  re- 
ceived, August  15,  1917,  his  commission  as  second  lieu- 
tenant of  infantry,  and,  assigned  to  Company  M,  23d 
Infantry  Regiment,  sailed  for  France,  September  8,  1917. 
On  October  26  his  Regular  Army  commission  of  provi- 
sional second  lieutenant  of  infantry  was  issued,  and  on 
the  same  day  he  was  promoted  temporary  first  lieutenant. 
From  the  time  of  his  landing  in  France  until  his  death 
from  wounds  in  the  fight  at  Chateau-Thierry,  Filley's 
personal  record  was  but  a  part  of  the  history  of  the  23d 
Infantry,  which  became  one  of  the  units  in  the  2d  Division 
of  the  American  Expeditionary  Forces  upon  its  organiza- 
tion late  in  1917.  His  letters  home  touched  on  the  outer 
aspects  of  the  life  he  was  leading,  with  allusions  to  the 
mud  of  Flanders  —  "without  exaggeration  it  is  up  to  our 
knees"  —  to  paying  $36  for  a  pair  of  boots,  to  his  tempo- 
rary service  as  judge  advocate,  to  the  superiority  of  French 
over  British  gas  masks,  to  looking  forward  to  the  trenches 
as  a  place  of  rest  after  wearisome  marches,  and  to  finding 
them  anything  but  that.  In  March  he  wrote:  "Things 
are  very  lively  now.  One  man  got  forty  Germans  yester- 
day and  should  get  all  kinds  of  decorations.  There  are 
rumors  that  I'm  to  be  made  a  captain,  but  I'm  perfectly 
satisfied  with  my  present  responsibility."  In  April  came 
this  observation:  "Life  is  queer.  We  go  to  a  French 
movie  and  sit  laughing  while  things  are  blown  to  pieces 



outside.  The  most  exciting  thing  I  have  seen  was  an  aerial 
fight.  The  French  brought  down  three  Boches  in  our  sec- 
tor, and  seventy-two  in  one  day  in  a  radius  of  ten  miles." 

With  the  23d  Infantry,  Filley  was  rushed,  June  1,  1918, 
to  Chateau-Thierry  for  the  fight  which  in  its  results  proved 
so  momentous  to  the  fortunes  of  the  Allies.  He  was  placed 
in  command  of  Company  M,  and  on  June  6  led  it  in  a 
charge  that  gained  its  objective.  When  this  was  done  he 
returned  to  Headquarters  for  further  instructions  and  was 
going  back  to  his  men,  at  9.30  p.m.,  when  he  was  severely 
wounded  in  the  chest  and  both  legs  by  fragments  of  a 
shell.  In  the  hospital  at  Juilly,  to  which  an  ambulance 
bore  him,  he  underwent,  on  the  following  day,  an  oper- 
ation on  his  chest,  but  it  was  impossible  to  save  him,  and 
on  June  8,  nine  months  from  the  day  of  his  sailing  for 
France,  he  died,  "unafraid  of  death,"  as  he  told  the 
chaplain  who  attended  him,  but  ready  for  it  if  it  must  come. 
He  was  buried  near  by,  with  full  military  ceremonial. 

He  was  an  officer  of  high  promise,  as  of  notable  achieve- 
ment. In  his  home  city  of  St.  Louis,  the  1st  Regiment  of 
Infantry,  Missouri  Home  Guards,  paid  him  honor  by 
giving  his  name,  in  1920,  to  their  summer  encampment. 
His  college  roommate,  in  more  intimate  testimony,  has 
described  him  as  "always  generous,  almost  to  a  fault, 
considerate,  bright,  manly,  and  upright,  and  the  best 
friend  a  man  could  hope  for."  From  a  friend  in  Paris, 
with  whom  he  spent  a  few  hours  on  his  way  to  the  front, 
came  the  report,  "I  never  talked  to  a  more  exalted  soul; 
he  was  like  the  crusaders  of  old,  fired  with  their  spirit, 
to  fight  for  the  highest  ideals,  to  bring  back  to  earth 
purity,  love,  and  freedom." 



Class  of  1914 

IJne  theory  of  biography  is  that  it  should  begin  in  the 
middle.  That  method  may  well  be  applied  in  the  present 
instance  by  quoting  a  letter  from  Frederick  L.  Allen 
(Harvard,  '12),  Secretary  to  the  Corporation  of  Harvard 
College : 

The  main  thing  that  I  shall  always  remember  about  Ev 
Herter  was  the  amount  of  sheer  enjoyment  that  he  got  out  of 



life,  and  the  amount  that  he  gave  to  any  company  of  which  he 
was  a  member.  He  Hved  abundantly,  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
term;  he  did  everything  with  gusto;  his  humor  was  contagious; 
he  was  one  of  the  most  genial  companions  I  have  ever  known. 

Herter  was  unusually  tall,  I  should  say  six  feet  two  or  three, 
and  of  fine  physique,  although  he  stooped  slightly.  He  had  a 
laugh  all  of  his  own,  a  sort  of  internal  chuckle,  almost  soundless; 
his  head  would  duck  forward  and  his  shoulders  jerk  upward  as 
if  he  were  inwardly  convulsed.  The  mere  sight  of  one  of  his 
intimates  approaching  was  enough  to  start  one  of  these  con- 
vulsions. He  seemed  to  be  inexpressibly  amused  even  before 
you  had  a  chance  to  say  anything;  and  the  result  was  that  the 
minute  you  saw  his  broad  shoulders  and  blond  head  across  the 
living  room  of  the  Harvard  Club  of  New  York,  you  found  your- 
self in  good  humor.  You  wanted  to  tell  him  the  best  story  you 
had  heard  that  day,  just  to  watch  him  relish  it.  He  was  hugely 
appreciative,  and  put  you  at  your  best.  If  you  were  going  any- 
where you  wanted  him  to  come  along,  because  no  party  could 
be  dull  if  Ev  Herter  was  there. 

Whenever  I  think  of  him  I  think  of  a  certain  October  week- 
end that  Boughton  Cobb  and  I  spent  with  him  at  Easthampton. 
That  weekend  was  a  regular  pentathlon;  we  played  golf  all  day, 
and  whenever  we  were  n't  playing  golf  we  were  competing  at 
pool  or  some  other  game.  When  the  time  came  for  me  to  rush 
for  my  train  to  New  York,  I  came  out  of  the  house,  where  I  had 
been  packing  furiously,  to  find  Herter  and  Cobb  in  the  midst  of 
a  game  of  croquet,  playing  in  the  glare  of  the  automobile  head- 
lights. It  was  nearly  dark;  but  they  had  backed  the  car  round 
so  that  the  headlights  played  on  the  croquet  lawn,  and  they  were 
hard  at  it.  That  was  characteristic  of  Ev,  He  had  played 
everything  else,  he  had  ten  minutes  to  spare  while  I  was  packing, 
and  he  must  cram  one  more  game  into  those  ten  minutes.  The 
only  thing  that  would  be  comparable  in  enjoyment  to  playing 
any  such  game  with  him  would  be  hearing  him  tell  about  it 



His  friends  still  tell  about  his  imitation  of  a  motion-picture 
operator  at  a  Crimson-Lampoon  hockey  game,  when  he  was  an 
undergraduate.  He  could  n't  skate  well  enough  to  take  part 
in  the  game,  but  he  rigged  up  something  that  looked  like  a 
camera  by  means  of  a  soap-box  with  the  top  of  a  beer-bottle 
sticking  out  through  a  hole  in  the  side,  and  he  rushed  here  and 
there  and  industriously  went  through  the  motions  of  turning 
a  crank  and  filming  the  more  tumultuous  crises  of  the  game. 
At  any  such  burlesque  affair  he  was  in  his  element.  He  pro- 
vided more  than  his  share  of  comedy  at  the  always  amusing 
baseball  game  between  the  Lampoon  and  Crimson  editors,  and 
no  costume  was  too  exaggerated  or  ridiculous  for  him  to  put 
on  as  a  member  of  the  Lampoon's  "reversible  battery." 

Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  I  mean  to  represent  him  as  a 
buffoon.  His  humor  was  only  one  manifestation  of  a  sensitive 
nature  that  showed  itself  also  in  his  keen  interest  in  art  and 
decoration,  and  in  his  genuine  thoughtfulness  and  kindness. 

The  impression  created  by  this  letter  is  heightened  by 
another,  from  Herter's  friend  and  classmate,  Edward 
Streeter,  author  of  "Dere  Mable"  and  other  popular 
books : 

I  lost  a  number  of  friends  in  the  war.  Several  of  them  touched 
my  life  more  closely  than  did  Everit.  None  of  them,  however, 
left  such  a  sense  of  vacancy.  Herter's  outstanding  character- 
istic was  a  whimsical  sense  of  humor,  and  I  never  saw  it  fail  him 
under  any  circumstances.  In  college  I  was  associated  with  him 
on  the  Harvard  Lampoon.  More  than  once  we  have  been  seated 
over  a  luncheon  table  and  realized  that  the  paper  had  to  go  to 
press  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  what  was  still  worse,  that  there 
was  no  material  available.  It  was  at  times  like  that  that  Herter 
was  at  his  best.  He  would  walk  up  and  down  the  room  making 
dry  remarks  which  were  not  of  the  least  help  and  then  suddenly 
an  idea  would  emerge,  and  then  another  and  another  until  we 



had  the  ground  work  of  the  entire  edition  laid  down.  Probably 
no  one  enjoyed  these  numbers  more  than  Ev  and  myself.  Cer- 
tainly no  one  laughed  so  hard  over  them. 

Later  when  Ev  became  a  professional  artist  and  married  a 
very  wonderful  girl,  Carolyn  Keck,  this  same  optimism  and 
humor  smoothed  over  the  rough  spots  caused  by  lack  of  money. 
He  lived  in  a  little  house  above  86th  Street  on  the  East  River. 
For  a  year  or  more  he  had  no  maid,  little  money,  and  not  too 
many  prospects,  yet  I  knew  of  no  place  where  I  could  be  sure  of 
better  conversation,  or  a  heartier  laugh.  Things  which  would 
have  made  life  depressing  to  an  ordinary  man,  Herter  made  into 
a  source  of  amusement.  I  remember  that  there  was  a  corner 
saloon  near  his  house  which  seemed  objectionable  to  me  until 
I  found  that  Herter  had  made  a  solemn  rite  of  going  there  each 
evening  before  bed  time  with  a  little  tin  pail  which  he  used  to 
fill  with  beer  to  speed  his  parting  guests. 

Had  he  lived,  I  think  that  Ev  might  have  become  a  great 
artist.  He  had  a  sincere  feeling  for  his  work  which  spelled 
"success,"  and  never  for  one  moment  did  he  dream  of  doing 
anything  else.  The  very  idea  of  being  in  business  amused  him 
and  yet  he  was  far  from  impractical  when  it  came  to  running 
his  own  house  and  family. 

We  were  writing  a  book  together  when  the  war  broke  out.  It 
would  never  have  been  much  of  a  book,  I  fear,  but  my  chief 
reason  for  wanting  to  write  it  was  the  contact  which  it  gave  me 
with  Ev. 

Now  to  begin  at  the  beginning :  —  Everit  Albert  Herter 
was  born  in  New  York,  February  19,  1894,  a  son  of  the 
distinguished  painter  Albert  Herter  and  Adele  (McGinnis) 
Herter.  His  brother  is  Christian  Archibald  Herter,  2d 
(Harvard,  '15),  who  was  serving  as  secretary  to  Ambas- 
sador Gerard  in  Berlin  when  the  United  States  entered  the 
war.  Seven  years  of  Everit  Herter's  childhood  were  spent 
in  Europe  —  France,  Italy,  Sicily,  Switzerland.    In  Paris 



he  attended  I'ficole  Alsacienne,  where  his  name  is  now  on 
the  Roll  of  Honor  among  his  French  comrades.  The  early 
memories  of  his  life  in  France  made  a  great  and  lasting 
impression  on  him,  and  were  always  happy  and  beloved, 
so  that  on  returning  to  France  as  a  soldier  he  felt  at  home 
and  greatly  loved  and  sympathized  with  the  people  of 
the  country. 

When  eleven  years  old  he  returned  to  America  and  went 
to  a  small  school,  Pine  Lodge,  near  Lakewood,  New  York. 
Here  he  was  very  happy,  and  did  well  in  his  studies,  at  the 
same  time  showing  such  talent  and  ingenuity  as  an  actor 
in  plays  given  by  the  boys  that  the  masters  felt  convinced 
that  acting  would  be  his  career.  This  talent  was  always 
increasingly  marked,  but  had  no  interest  for  him  as  a 
serious  vocation. 

From  Pine  Lodge  he  went  to  the  Browning  School  in 
New  York  for  two  years,  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  en- 
tered Harvard.  He  did  not  graduate  from  college  until 
a  half-year  after  his  class  because  of  a  serious  accident  to 
his  foot  in  the  fall  of  his  freshman  year  which  incapaci- 
tated him  for  five  months.  He  never  recovered  from  this 
accident,  and  when  the  war  came  his  lameness  prevented 
his  entering  any  officers'  training  camp.  At  Harvard  his 
studies  were  mostly  in  the  art  courses,  and  he  enjoj'ed 
especially  his  work  with  Denman  Ross.  He  belonged  to 
the  Institute,  Signet,  D.  K.  E.,  Stylus,  Pen  and  Brush, 
Cosmopolitan,  Hasty  Pudding  and  Spee  Clubs,  but  the 
association  from  which  he  derived  the  greatest  enjo\anent 
and  profit  during  his  years  at  Harvard  was  that  of  the 
Lampoon,  of  which  he  was  an  editor,  and  in  his  senior 
year  "Ibis." 



After  taking  his  degree  in  January,  1915,  he  went  im- 
mediately to  New  York,  where  he  studied  at  the  New  York 
Art  League  with  George  B.  Bridgman.  That  summer  he 
took  some  painting  courses  at  the  Harvard  Summer 
School,  and  in  October  was  married  in  Easthampton,  Long 
Island,  to  Caroline  Seymour  Keck.  During  the  following 
winter  he  lived  in  New  York  and  worked  with  and  for  his 
father.  The  quality  of  his  painting  may  be  seen  in  the 
mural  decorations  in  the  Japanese  style  which  he  did  for 
the  Stratford  House  grill  in  New  York,  and  in  Chinese 
panels  for  a  lady's  boudoir.  These  two  things  were  of 
especial  note  in  his  accomplishment  of  that  winter.  During 
the  summer  of  1916,  he  worked  on  some  decorations  of 
Barry  Faulkner's  for  the  Washington  Irving  High  School 
in  New  York. 

In  October,  1916,  his  first  son  was  born,  Albert  Herter, 
2d,  who  died  just  a  year  after  his  father.  His  second  boy 
was  born  after  he  went  to  war,  March,  1918,  and  bears  his 

April,  1917,  brought  the  war,  and  during  the  following 
summer,  being  unable  to  enlist  or  enter  any  camp  for  the 
reason  already  named,  he  spent  his  time  painting  decora- 
tive panels  which  he  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  Red  Cross. 
His  hope  for  more  active  service  lay  in  the  organization  of 
a  Camouflage  Corps  such  as  the  French  had  formed,  and 
the  moment  of  its  birth  found  him  in  Washington.  On 
September  4,  1917,  he  enlisted  as  a  private,  and  was  as- 
signed to  the  25th  Engineers,  Company  A  (Camouflage.) 
The  injury  to  his  foot  was  overlooked,  and  though  his 
comrades  tell  of  the  agony  it  caused  him  on  hikes,  he  never 
allowed  it  to  incapacitate  or  handicap  him. 



After  a  week  as  a  private  he  became  a  corporal,  and  on 
September  25  was  promoted  sergeant,  1st  class.  With  the 
first  contingent  of  his  regiment  he  sailed,  on  January  4, 
1918,  for  France,  where  the  unit  to  which  he  belonged  was 
attached  to  the  5th  and  6th  Regiments,  U.  S.  Marine 
Corps,  at  the  front. 

In  words  of  his  own  Herter  drew  a  picture  of  the  journey 
to  France  which  is  introduced  at  this  point  in  spite  of  its 
dealing  with  a  single  episode  of  his  military  life  with  a 
degree  of  detail  that  cannot  be  duplicated  in  any  other. 
Apart  from  its  place  in  the  record  of  Herter's  experience,  it 
makes  a  distinctive  contribution  to  the  amazing  story  of 
the  transportation  of  our  millions  of  troops  to  France. 

On  January  2,  we  got  orders  to  burn  the  straw  from  our 
mattresses,  and  we  knew  again  that  we  were  due  to  start.  This 
time  there  was  no  hitch.  Shortly  after  noon  mess  the  company 
was  assembled,  everything  checked  up,  and  the  baggage  gone. 
We  left  camp  at  about  3  o'clock,  and  the  snow  was  falling 
heavily,  so  that  it  was  twilight  when  we  got  to  Washington.  We 
passed  the  foot  of  the  Washington  Monument,  and  you  can 
imagine  nothing  more  picturesque  than  the  men  —  their  hats, 
shoulders,  and  knapsacks  powdered  with  snow  —  filing  by  in 
dusk,  with  the  great  obelisk,  its  top  almost  lost  in  the  gathering 
darkness  and  the  driving  snow,  for  a  background.  It  was  a 
great  sight. 

It  was  about  5.30  that  we  finally  pulled  up  in  the  railroad 
yards.  It  soon  became  apparent  that  things  had  gone  wrong, 
as  there  was  no  train  in  evidence,  except  a  string  of  coal  cars 
against  which  we  were  lined  up.  We  stacked  arms,  and  posted 
a  guard,  so  that  no  man  could  go  outside  the  stacks  and  get 
lost;  and  then  just  waited.  It  was  down  near  zero  with  a  fear- 
ful wind  blowing,  and  a  draft  between  and  under  those  freight 
cars  that  took  us  off  our  feet,  so  we  were  fairly  miserable.    Some 



ingenious  soul  scooped  axle  grease  out  of  the  train  wheels  and 
started  a  fire  with  it  and  some  loose  coal.  The  idea  was  passed 
along,  and  each  platoon  presently  had  a  fire  going.  It  was  a 
wonderful  scene  —  of  the  Valley  Forge  type  —  but  most  un- 
comfortable as  you  simply  could  n't  get  warm  without  burning. 
That  lasted  about  three  hours.    Then  the  train  finally  pulled  in. 

As  usual  there  had  been  a  mistake,  and  they  had  sent  a  train 
at  4  o'clock,  with  about  half  enough  space  and  no  heat.  This 
train  was  fine  though.  We  loaded  on,  by  platoons,  three  men 
to  a  double  seat.  The  racks  were  full  of  equipment  —  belts, 
canteens,  cartridge-belts  hanging  from  them,  rifles  stacked  in 
corners,  between  seats,  etc.,  mackinaws  and  ponchos  hanging 
on  every  available  hook,  and  the  air  dim  and  blue  with  tobacco 
smoke  —  another  scene  full  of  character  and  local  color.  The 
train  stopped  immediately  (about  9)  leaving  Lieutenant  Embury 
behind  by  a  mistake.  He  had  to  hire  a  locomotive  and  catch 
up  with  us,  which  he  did  in  about  two  hours,  covered  with  grease, 
from  head  to  foot,  on  his  new  uniform. 

We  passed  a  pleasant  if  somewhat  sleepless  night.  Owing 
to  the  crowding,  every  time  you  tried  to  sleep  some  one  else 
would  do  likewise,  and  presently  his  feet  would  find  their  way 
into  your  face,  or  vice  versa,  and  hostilities  would  start.  Card 
games  were  the  most  popular  time-killers,  some  lasting  all  night. 

Along  towards  5.30  we  arrived  at  our  destination.  Of  course 
we  had  no  idea  where  we  were.  We  unloaded  and  fell  in  on  the 
platform  in  column  of  squads.  Without  delay,  as  darkness  and 
secrecy  were  necessary,  we  marched  into  the  station.  We  had 
to  "break  step"  immediately,  as  when  we  entered  the  stone 
paved  waiting  room  we  were  all  in  step  and  the  rhythmic  rever- 
berations made  the  place  shake  and  echo,  and  brought  the  sleepy 
porters  and  workmen  and  a  few  civilians  rushing  from  all  points 
to  see  what  the  devil  was  up.  The  order  had  been  given  that 
there  would  be  no  loud  talking  or  shouting  of  any  kind,  but 
when  we  had  crossed  the  station,  gone  down  a  gang  plank  and 
on  to  a  ferry-boat,  there  it  was,  visible  through  the  windows  at 



the  end  —  the  skyhne  of  lower  Manhattan,  against  the  pale 
green  sky  —  first  signs  of  the  dawn  —  and  the  first  two  platoons 
broke  into  a  perfect  roar  of  joy.  The  officers  were  so  excited 
themselves  that  nothing  was  said,  but  you  can  imagine  the 
thrill  of  it.  The  men  who  came  from  New  York  were  wild,  and 
as  most  of  the  others  had  never  seen  it  before,  they  were  over- 
awed. It  was  too  beautiful  for  anything.  The  river  was  packed 
with  ice  —  iridescent  as  the  dawn  grew  brighter  —  against 
that  wonderful  background  of  skyscrapers  and  lights. 

The  ferry  headed  straight  up  the  river,  keeping  on  the  Jersey 
side,  and  suddenly  headed  in  to  one  of  the  great  docks.    At  this 

dock  lay  the ,  just  returned  from  France,  and  sheathed  in 

ice;   and  on  the  other  side  another  great  vessel,  the which 

was  to  take  us.  I  am  not  allowed  to  give  names,  but  our  ship 
is  almost  the  largest  transport  afloat.  The  ferry  tied  up  to  the 
outer  end  of  the  dock,  and  we  marched  straight  down  the  dock 
to  the  transport's  gang  plank.  Each  man  called  his  name  as  he 
went  on  board,  and  was  checked  up  by  a  ship's  officer,  so  it  was 
impossible  for  a  spy  to  get  on  board  unless  he  was  in  a  company. 
(We  hear,  by  the  way,  that  on  the  last  trip  this  boat  made, 
there  was  a  spy  on  board  —  an  officer,  who  was  caught  signalling 
from  a  port -hole  with  a  flash-light.)  For  the  first  time,  I  dis- 
covered the  advantage  of  being  a  1st  class  sergeant.  When  all 
the  men  had  gone  on  board,  we  were  kept  waiting,  with  the 
officers,  on  the  dock,  until  nearly  paralyzed  with  cold.  Then 
we  were  ushered  on  board  to  a  most  luxurious  stateroom.  .  .  . 

Having  shed  our  packs,  we  went  below  to  see  how  the  boys 
were  getting  along.  I  assure  you,  the  troop-space  on  a  transport 
is  a  sight  for  sore  eyes.  The  ceiling  averages  about  six  and  one- 
half  feet  in  height.  In  every  available  inch  of  space  there  are 
iron  pipes  (upright)  and  cross  pieces  six  feet  long  about  twenty 
inches  across.  Between  these  a  canvas  is  stretched.  That's 
your  bunk.  They  are  in  tiers  of  three,  one  above  the  other,  the 
lowest  a  foot  from  the  floor,  the  other  two  about  two  feet  apart. 
The  upper  berth  is  impossible  to  sit  up  in,  and  gets  some  light. 



The  lower  two  are  good  for  nothing  but  sleeping.  The  port- 
holes are  all  closed  solid,  so  we  depend  on  artificial  ventilation  — 
which  puts  us  at  the  mercy  of  the  wind.  With  the  wind  astern 
—  as  it  now  is  for  instance  —  there  is  no  air.  The  aisles  between 
bunks  are  just  wide  enough  to  pass  through  by  squeezing  — 
passing  a  man  is  impossible  —  and  to  sum  up,  there  are  no 
hooks,  so  a  man's  berth  contains  not  only  himself  but  all  his 
belongings,  blankets,  poncho,  shelter-tent,  pack,  haversack, 
cartridge  belt,  mess  tin,  canteen  and  cup,  and  toilet  articles  and 

Lieutenant  St.  G.  conducts  three  inspections  of  quarters 
daily,  and  if  a  man's  bunk  is  not  absolutely  neat  he  gets  soaked. 
That  keeps  them  busy  and  our  quarters  look  extremely  well. 

The  men  are  turned  loose  when  they  get  on  board,  but  of 
course  no  one  is  allowed  ashore  again.  ...  ^ 

During  the  day  the  ship  took  in  her  cargo  —  great  derrick 
loads  at  a  time  —  and  all  night  you  could  hear  the  squeaking 
and  groaning  of  the  great  machines  hauling  up  and  lowering 
ton  after  ton  of  steel,  iron,  food,  ammunition,  etc. 

I  stood  on  the  stern  with  Faulkner  that  night,  and  probably 
never  saw  a  finer  sight.  We  looked  straight  across  the  river  at 
the  great  mass  of  lights  of  the  city,  with  tugs  and  brilliantly 
lighted  ferries  ploughing  up  the  ice  between  us.  Clouds  of 
steam  arose  from  our  ship,  somewhere  beneath  us,  so  that  at 
times  everything  was  hidden.  Then  we'd  catch  a  glimpse 
through  a  rift  in  the  cloud.  Presently  a  ferry  would  head  in, 
swarming  with  troops,  and  the  long  dark  line  would  pile  on  to 
the  dock,  through  the  great  store  houses,  and  up  on  to  the  trans- 
port. There  would  be  other  ferries  waiting,  also  alive  with  men, 
and  as  the  first  backed  out,  these  came  in,  and  the  vast  transport 
continued  to  take  in  its  load  throughout  the  night. 

By  morning  she  was  loaded.  Only  one  gang  plank  was  in 
place — from  the  officers'  deck — and  orderlies  were  rushing  up 
and  down  it  getting  the  last  papers  signed,  etc.  Then  came  a 
general  call  to  quarters,  and  every  man  on  board  went  below  — 
out  of  sight. 



Nothing  happened  for  a  long  time,  and  when  I  got  a  ghmpse 
out  of  a  port-hole  (along  towards  3.30  p.m.)  there  was  "Lib- 
erty" on  the  starboard  bow,  and  the  dear  old  Aquarium  at  the 
Battery,  to  port.  It  was  very  beautiful  in  the  late  afternoon 
light,  and  although  looking  out  of  port-holes  was  strictly  for- 
bidden I  could  n't  resist  a  long  farewell  look.  Neither  could 
most  of  the  other  officers  and  non-coms. 

The  non-coms,  1st  class  sergeants,  1st  sergeants,  master 
engineers,  and  medical  sergeants  have  a  mess  hall  to  themselves 
—  another  added  luxury,  although  I  can't  say  too  little  of  the 
mentality  and  morality  of  the  average  non-com.  ,  .  . 

When  we  were  allowed  on  deck  again,  it  was  night,  and  by 
morning  no  land  was  in  sight. 

Then  it  became  clear  that  trouble  was  ahead.  Our  company 
was  chosen  to  do  all  the  guard  duty  for  the  ship  for  the  entire 
trip.  There  were  twenty-two  posts  to  guard.  Three  reliefs 
made  sixty-six  men,  who,  with  six  corporals  and  two  sergeants, 
made  seventy-four  men  we  had  to  supply  daily,  I  was  on  guard 
our  first  day  and  night  out.  It  was  very  impressive  at  night. 
You  can't  imagine  how  curious  a  sensation  it  was  inspecting 
the  reliefs  at  night,  when  all  ports  were  closed  and  covered.  I 
stepped  out  on  deck.  It  was  totally  black.  Occasionally  there 
would  be  a  flash  of  phosphorus  from  the  foam  alongside,  but 
that  was  all.  The  guard  would  be  invisible  at  a  distance  of  two 
feet.  You  felt  strangely  alone  in  that  darkness,  with  the  wind 
whistling  and  the  sea  rushing  past,  although  the  great  black 
mass  beneath  you  was  simply  packed  with  humanity.  The 
twenty-two  posts  ranged  from  the  engine  room  to  the  hurricane 
deck,  so,  as  you  can  see,  I  got  so  that  I  knew  that  route  like  a 
bloodhound.  When  the  time  came  for  the  guard  to  be  changed, 
I  would  stir  up  the  corporal,  and  together  we  would  waken  the 
twenty-two  men.  No  slight  job,  when  you  think  of  fifty  men 
sleeping  pell-mell  on  and  under  tables,  in  heaps  all  over  the 
guard-room.  A  purple  blue  light  (visible  only  at  short  dis- 
tance) gave  a  mysterious  look  to  the  scene.    These  men  would 



sleepily  get  together.  The  corporal  called  the  roll,  inspected 
the  rifles  (with  me  supervising  at  a  distance,  as  became  my 
dignity)  and  then  with  a  few  whispered  commands,  the  relief 
would  disappear  into  the  blackness.  At  first  it  took  one  hour 
and  fifty  minutes  to  complete  the  relief.  This  was  cut  down  to 
twenty-five  minutes  by  Corporal  Henry,  who  could  take  those 
twenty-two  men  through  this  ship  just  like  a  rat. 

There  is  an  artillery  outfit  on  board.  They  despise  us  because 
we're  not  soldiers  (they  being  regulars)  and  jeer  at  our  guards. 
So  many  of  our  men  were  sea-sick  that  we  simply  could  n't  do 
all  the  guard  duty,  and  they  were  picked  to  relieve  us  every 
other  day.  Their  officers  boasted  to  ours :  "Now  we  have  a  real 
military  guard  over  this  ship,"  they  said,  and  St.  Gaudens  was 
sore  as  a  crab.  Their  first  night  on  duty  two  men  went  to  sleep 
at  their  posts.  A  court-martial  gave  them  six  months  in  prison 
at  hard  labor.  Our  officers  and  men  tease  theirs  continually 
about  it,  and  the  situation  is  a  bit  strained. 

A  poor  devil  in  the  regiment  died  of  pneumonia  today. 
Measles  and  mumps  are  rather  prevalent  and  we  fear  a  quaran- 
tine when  we  land. 

There  has  been  a  row  among  the  colored  troops  below  —  of 
whom  there  are  vast  numbers  —  and  three  are  in  the  hospital, 
cut  up  with  razors. 

We  reach  the  Gulf  Stream,  the  third  day  out.  It  is  as  warm 
as  summer.  Blue  sky  and  blue  sea  look  too  wonderful.  There 
is  no  wind,  but  a  long  gentle  roll.    The  boys  are  sick  as  pigs. 

Do  you  remember  the  boy  with  pleurisy  that  was  dropped  off 
the  litter  into  the  snow  three  times?  He  was  corporal  of  the 
guard.  I  was  commander  at  the  time.  He  started  out  with  the 
relief  about  midnight.  Presently  four  or  five  of  them  come  back, 
having  lost  the  rest  of  the  crowd.  I  rounded  them  up,  and 
started  out  on  the  trail  of  the  corporal.  I  bump  into  someone 
in  the  darkness,  and  challenge  him.  It  turns  out  to  be  a  few 
more  of  that  relief,  also  lost,  wandering  around.  The  whole 
relief  was  lost.    I  kept  them  with  me,  and  started  to  post  them 



myself.  On  the  aft  stairway  there's  a  light.  As  we  passed  the 
stairway  a  strange  bent  figure  went  sneaking  up  —  seat  of 
trousers  dragging  on  the  ground  and  hand  firmly  clapped  over 
mouth.  It  is  the  corporal  of  guard  searching  for  air,  so  sea- 
sick he  could  n't  unbend  his  knees  Can  you  think  of  anything 

When  I  got  to  post  No.  4  (way  down  in  the  bowels  of  the  ship) 
the  guard, by  name,  very  ugly  with  ears  like  a  bat,  is  spin- 
ning round  and  round  his  gun  —  the  gun  being  a  pivot  in  the 
middle  —  and  blowing  right  and  left  as  he  went  around.  Vastly 
disagreeable,  and  cheerful  for  the  man  who  reheved  him. 
Luckily,  I  have  n't  even  known  a  qualm  of  sickness.  Hope  it 

Twice  a  day  the  bugle  blows  "Abandon  the  Ship."  Every 
man  knows  exactly  what  to  do  —  they  come  up  the  hatchway 
in  a  fixed  order.  Thirty-one  men  and  four  non-coms  for  the 
first  life  boat;  nineteen  men,  three  non-coms  for  the  first  raft, 
etc.,  etc.    We've  got  it  down  to  a  science. 

There  is  very  little  to  do.    I  play  cards  with and 

and most  of  the  time,  and  have  strengthened  my  meagre 

bankroll  a  bit.    They  are  miserable  bridge  players. 

We  are  getting  into  the  danger  zone.  It  is  a  curious  sensa- 
tion, to  know  that  somewhere  around  you,  beneath  the  waves, 
the  enemy  lies  hidden,  waiting  his  chance  to  finish  you.  To 
think  that  at  this  moment  he  may  be  discharging  his  torpedo. 
Rather  unpleasant,  n'est-ce  pas? 

Di  Colonna  is  Commander  of  the  Guard.  The  officer  of  deck 
(Mogul  on  board  ship)  comes  down  to  the  guard  room.  "There 's 
two  soldiers  sleeping  on  deck,  against  orders,"  he  says.  "Throw 
'em  in  the  brig;  we  can't  have  any  of  that  stuff!" 

Colonna  gropes  his  way  on  deck,  searching  his  prey.  He  trips 
over  one,  in  the  blackness,  and  sprawls  on  the  deck.  "Are  you 
soldiers?"  he  asks.  "Of  course  we  are,"  this  bird  answers. 
"All  right,  honey,"  says  Colonna.  "You  two  babies  get  the 
hell  out  of  the  captain's  back  yard,  right  now,  or  I  throw  you 
both  in  the  brig,  see?  " 



And  these  fellows  grab  their  bedding  and  duck  below  like 
prairie-dogs!     The  joke  of  the  matter  is  that  they  are  both 

officers!    Imagine  it!    A  captain  and  a  lieutenant  of  the 

Engineers.  Of  course  the  other  officers  don't  stop  kidding  them 
at  all,  and  Colonna  is  so  afraid  of  a  court-martial  that  he 's  blow- 
ing bubbles.  There  is  no  danger,  though,  as  he  was  perfectly 
right.  They  were  out  there,  in  the  mortal  dread  of  being 
torpedoed  and  getting  drowned  in  their  berths! 

I  was  on  guard  again  last  night.  We  are  within  300  miles  of 
France,  and  in  the  worst  of  the  danger  zone.  All  lights  except 
the  dim  blue  ones  go  out  one  hour  before  sunset  —  until  7  a.m. 
We  get  two  meals  per  day  —  at  7.30  and  2.30.  You  can't  con- 
ceive of  the  complete  blackness  of  the  boat  after  the  lights  go  out- 
Lieutenant  Fry  asked  a  sailor  the  other  day  if  it  was  pretty 
bad  in  the  danger  zone.  The  sailor  said,  "Hell,  no!  It's  just 
exactly  the  same  then  as  any  other  time.  You  do  everything 
just  the  same  —  except  you  sleep  in  the  hall  or  on  deck  fully 
dressed  with  a  life  preserver  on." 

Just  the  same  as  usual! 

It  is  a  relief  to  be  on  guard  and  have  something  to  do.  This 
morning  at  3.30  Faulkner  leaps  out  of  his  berth  and  says  "Boys! 
The  ship  has  stopped!"  Of  course  we  woke  with  a  start  — 
hearts  in  mouth,  etc.  Then  we  heard  a  few  strange  bangs  and 
crashes  —  the  ship  rolling  fearfully  —  and  expected  to  hear  the 
siren  which  announces  that  she's  sinking,  at  any  moment. 
Nothing  happens,  so  Griswold  and  I  go  back  to  sleep  another 
wink.    Although  no  one  admits  it,  the  tension  is  quite  severe. 

It  is  very  rough  when  I  'm  on  guard  this  time.  This  causes 
continuous  rumblings  and  creakings  and  groanings,  which  adds 
to  the  general  uneasiness. 

All  night  long  the  colored  troops,  way  below  in  the  hold,  pace 
up  and  down  the  narrow  aisles  like  wild  animals.  I  have  a 
guard  over  their  stairway,  and  he 's  nearly  as  frightened  as  they 
are,  as  the  first  thing  they'd  do  in  a  panic  would  be  to  clean 
him  up  and  clear  the  stairway. 



A  most  impressive  sight,  that.  Almost  incredible,  it  is  so 
stage-like.  Hundreds  of  black  men,  with  the  fear  of  death  on 
them,  squeezing  their  way  up  and  down,  back  and  forth  all 
through  the  night,  in  the  faint  light  of  the  swinging  blue  lights. 

The  men  are  no  longer  sea-sick,  but  sick  to  death  of  the  sea. 
Grass  and  trees  have  been  an  attraction  hitherto  unknown.  We 
get  along  with  the  Artillery  bunch  as  pleasantly  as  two  strange 
wild  cats.  One  day  they  arrest  as  many  of  our  men  as  possible 
(when  they  are  on  guard)  for  all  kinds  of  trivial  things.  The 
next  day  our  men  rush  to  volunteer  for  guard  duty  —  some- 
thing unknown  before  —  in  order  to  arrest  as  many  Artillery 
men  as  possible  in  the  next  twenty-four  hours.  Our  officers  and 
theirs  are  on  pins  and  needles  trying  to  avoid  a  row.  If  it  came 
to  that,  every  one  else  on  the  ship  would  be  with  us,  as  the  cocky, 
self-satisfied  inefficient  regulars  have  made  themselves  hated 
by  every  one. 

I'm  still  on  guard.  We  have  n't  moved  during  the  night  — 
supposedly  awaiting  our  convoy.  Pretty  ticklish  business  — 
standing  still  in  the  war  zone. 

About  ten  this  moining,  without  any  warning  of  its  approach, 
a  destroyer  comes  leaping  thiough  the  waves,  rapidly  followed 
by  two  more.  They  appear  from  all  sides  at  once.  All  are 
strangely  camouflaged,  according  to  some  new  system.  We 
have  studied  them  carefully  from  all  angles,  and  they  are  ap- 
parently just  as  visible  as  any  other  boat.  One  was  pretty 
good  —  the  first  one  that  came  up.  In  fact  it  looked  like  two 
boats  about  a  mile  away. 

They  were  greeted  with  wild  cheers,  and  all  hands  felt  that 
danger  was  past.  Two  of  them  darted  back  and  forth  in  front 
of  us.  One  on  each  side  would  slack  off  until  even  with  our 
stern  and  then  chase  up  to  the  bow  again.  Slack  off  again,  etc. 
The  other  two  brought  up  the  rear.  .  .  . 

Last  night  we  began  to  bet  on  when  we'd  land.  Bridge  had 
inside  dope  from  a  ship's  officer  and  tried  to  skin  us,  but  we  let 
him  choose  his  time,  and  then  we  bet  him  his  dope  was  wrong. 



We  also  made  a  pool  on  the  exact  hour  of  landing.  Bridge  bet 
we'd  land  before  this  morning. 

Day  broke  rather  interestingly.    At  7.15  no  land  was  in  sight 

—  so  we  collected  from  Bridge.  At  7.30  we  had  a  brush  with  a 
submarine  and  their  torpedo  missed  us  by  about  twenty  feet, 
passing  under  the  stern.  The  submarine  did  n't  come  up  at  all, 
so  nobody  got  a  shot  at  him  ^ — -he  probably  took  a  chance  at 
long  range  and  came  pretty  near  getting  away  with  it.  It  shook 
the  boys  a  bit. 

Then  Embury  and  I  did  a  lot  more  betting  about  when  we'd 
land.  It  was  rather  misty,  and  no  land  was  visible  until  10 
o'clock.  Suddenly  a  great  rocky  headland  loomed  up  in  the 
mist.    You  can't  imagine  what  joy  it  brought  to  our  hearts. 

The  sea  got  suddenly  very  calm,  and  yellowish  green  in  color 

—  and  we  knew  that  one  phase  of  our  adventure  was  nearly  over. 
We  follow  the  coast,  getting  in  nearer  and  nearer.    A  more 

beautiful  shore-line  would  be  hard  to  imagine.  The  cliffs  are 
dark  purple,  with  green  —  probably  moss  on  the  rocks,  and  all 
outlines  are  soft  and  indistinct  in  the  mist.  A  great  surf  beats 
on  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  and  we  see  the  white  foam 
leaping  up  in  the  crevasses  and  dashing  against  the  rocks.  Sud- 
denly there  is  a  break  in  the  cliff.  Picturesque  trees  hang  over 
the  sides  and  beyond  them  stretches  a  wonderful  pattern  of 
brilliant  green  fields  —  all  shades  of  green  —  here  and  there 
spotted  with  low  white  farm  houses,  all  fading  away  into  the 
mist.  Then  we  pass,  and  the  cliff  is  before  us,  apparently  with- 
out break,  until  suddenly  we  catch  another  glimpse  of  the  in- 
land through  another  break. 

We  are  in  an  estuary.  The  shores  converge  and  the  water  con- 
tinues to  get  smoother.  Suddenly  we  are  surrounded  by  vast 
quantities  of  boats  of  all  sizes  riding  at  anchor.  They  were 
hidden  in  the  mist  until  we  were  right  on  top  of  them.  We 
anchor  in  their  midst. 

Camouflaged  boats  of  all  strange  descriptions  are  on  every 
side.    The  Harvard  I  hear  is  among  them,  but  I  have  n't  seen 



her.  Would  n't  it  be  great  if  I  caught  a  gUmpse  of  Bough ! 
There  is  Httle  chance,  as  we  get  no  leave  on  shore;  I  am  going 
with  a  detail  to  attend  to  baggage,  tomorrow,  acting  as  inter- 

In  about  three  days  we  shall  go  ashore  and  probably  straight 
to  our  quarters  behind  the  lines.  I  may  not  get  a  chance  to 
write  for  a  long  while,  as  we  shall  be  sleeping  on  trains  for  days 
and  days.    Also  we  find  the  censorship  very  strict. 

Good  fortune  did  not  appear  to  follow  Herter,  for  shortly 
after  landing  he  contracted  mumps  and  spent  weeks  in 
quarantine.  Finally,  recovering  from  that  and  working 
through  the  miles  of  red  tape  which  seemed  woven  to  keep 
the  soldier  who  had  been  unfortunate  enough  to  be 
sick  from  returning  to  his  own  outfit,  he  got  to  Dijon, 
where  the  factories  of  the  Camouflage  were  stationed 
and  all  the  material  they  used  was  manufactured  and 
built.  Most  of  his  friends  had  already  gone  to  the  front 
and  on  April  20  he  received  his  orders  to  follow.  He  went 
first  to  the  Verdun-St.  Mihiel  sector  and  early  in  June  to 
the  Chateau-Thierry  front.  It  was  there,  on  the  thir- 
teenth of  that  month,  that  he  was  killed  with  shrapnel, 
while  out  camouflaging  a  big  gun. 

A  diary  he  had  been  keeping  ended  on  June  11,  with  a 
paragraph  of  peculiar  interest  in  view  of  its  proceeding 
from  a  soldier  who  was  first  of  all  an  artist,  sensitive, 
highly  organized. 

This  life  is  curiously  different  from  the  Verdun  front.  Up 
there  the  lines  have  been  stationary  for  four  years,  and  every 
few  feet  is  an  abri,  fifty  feet  deep  often,  and  always  a  dugout 
of  some  kind  into  which  you  can  duck  when  the  shelling  starts. 
Here  there  is  no  protection  whatever.    All  you  can  do  is  to  hit 



the  ground  —  in  a  ditch  if  possible  —  and  let  the  splinters  go 
over  you.  Even  then  if  the  shell  happens  to  be  shrapnel  you  are 
out  of  luck.  A  man  either  gets  callous  or  his  nerves  go  back  on 
him.  I  am  a  little  nervous  at  times,  but  generally  callous.  I 
always  sleep  at  every  opportunity.  One  night  —  with  all  my 
clothes  wringing  wet,  wrapped  in  two  soaking  blankets  on  the 
wet  ground,  my  teeth  nearly  chattering  with  the  cold  —  I 
slept  ten  hours,  while  a  battery  within  seventy  yards  of  me 
fired  1200  rounds.  Two  of  the  guns  were  thirty  feet  away  and 
the  explosions  lifted  me  off  the  ground  when  they  fired.  I  was 
not  particularly  tired  that  night,  either,  having  had  sleep  regu- 
larly before,  but  I  never  knew  a  shot  had  been  fired. 

A  few  days  earlier  he  had  written:  "The  curious  part 
of  it  all  is  that  we  are  literally  on  the  eve  of  battle  —  one 
of  the  great  battles,  too  —  [he  did  not  know  that  it  was 
the  deciding  battle  of  the  war]  and  you'd  think  we  were 
on  a  picnic.  I  believe  the  fearful  tension  just  before  going 
into  battle,  that  we  read  about,  is  more  or  less  an  artificial 
condition,  and  can  be  created  or  avoided  by  the  right  or 
wrong  word  at  the  psychological  moment."  To  this  his 
wife  has  added:  "I  am  sure,  and  I  have  heard  from  his 
comrades,  that  he  always  had  that  right  word,  and  that 
ability  to  control  the  tenor  of  the  thought  around  him, 
with  his  sense  of  humor  which  was  peerless,  his  demo- 
cratic and  fraternal  spirit  toward  all  men;  and  his  cou- 
rageous and  uncomplaining  desire  to  serve  made  him  the 
most  beloved  man  in  his  Company,  They  named  their 
Legion  Post  the  Everit  Herter  Post  in  his  honor." 

Well  may  those  who  cared  for  Herter  believe  all  that 
was  said  in  his  praise.  A  few  days  after  his  death  his 
commanding  oflBcer,  Captain  Homer  St.  Gaudens  (Har- 
vard, '03),  wrote  thus  to  Mrs.  Herter: 



He  was  the  most  universally  loved  and  admired  man  in  the 
company;  one  we  could  least  afford  to  lose.  He  had  only  been 
at  the  front  a  short  time,  yet  had  made  himself  the  most  valu- 
able member  of  the  detachment.  I  have  had  more  expressions  of 
regret  from  officers  for  whom  and  with  whom  he  worked  than  I 
could  have  dreamed  was  possible.  Two  days  after  his  death 
there  came  a  telegram  from  Major  Bennion  ordering  him  to 
Tours  for  his  examinations  for  a  commission.  I  am  enclosing 
the  lieutenant's  bars  and  insignia  that  I  had  bought  for  him 
some  weeks  ago,  planning  to  give  them  to  him  when  his  com- 
mission arrived  in  some  out  of  the  way  corner.  They  are  cheap 
little  trinkets,  but  I  believe  they  will  remind  you  of  what  we 
thought  of  him. 

He  was  in  charge  of  the  work  on  a  regiment  of  75's  that  oc- 
cupied an  advanced  position.  As  nearly  as  I  can  make  out  from 
the  confused  stories  that  have  reached  me,  he  was  sitting  in  a 
gun  emplacement  on  the  morning  of  June  13th,  waiting  for 
a  detail  to  bring  up  material  when  an  entirely  stray  shell  ex- 
ploded near  by  and  sent  a  fragment  through  his  body  just  below 
his  chest.  He  managed  to  reach  the  main  road  less  than  one 
hundred  yards  away  where  he  was  picked  up  by  an  ambulance 
and  taken  at  once  to  a  hospital  for  the  seriously  wounded. 

I  could  not  go  to  see  him  myself  in  this  time  of  stress.  The 
first  news  that  came  to  me  the  next  day  was  that  he  had  a 
chance  of  living,  the  next  that  he  had  died.  He  was  buried  in 
the  Cimetiere  de  la  Ferte,  American  Section  14.  .  .  . 

Your  husband  fulfilled  his  task  as  courageously  and  as  de- 
votedly as  any  member  of  the  division,  which  in  the  last  few 
weeks  has  distinguished  itself  above  others  with  brave  men 
about  it.  After  all  it  is  not  when  a  soldier  dies  but  how.  Of 
that  how  you  and  your  children  may  have  the  proudest  mem- 

I  write  you  as  his  captain  and  his  friend. 



Class  of  1920 

J.  o  Ralph  Henry  Lasser,  a  freshman  in  Harvard  College 
when  the  United  States  entered  the  war,  his  Jewish  de- 
scent and  faith  were  objects  of  so  peculiar  a  pride  and 
devotion  that  they  should  be  mentioned  first  in  any  ac- 
count of  him.  But  if  three  things  could  be  named  at  a 
single  moment  his  devotion  to  America  and  to  his  mother 
should  be  recorded  at  the  very  same  time.  Not  yet  twenty 
years  old,  he  was  a  private  in  Company  E,  101st  U.  S.  En- 
gineers, when  he  was  killed  at  Beaumont  in  France,  June 
16, 1918.  These  statements  of  fact  will  suffice  for  introduc- 
tion to  the  following  passages  from  two  letters  which  he 
wrote  his  mother  from  France.  It  will  be  strange  if  those 
who  read  them  do  not  wish  to  know  more  about  their  writer. 



Somewhere  jn  France, 
December  SI,  1917. 
My  dear  Old  Mother,  — 

.  .  .  Today  is  the  last  day  of  1917.  Quite  a  year  that  has 
been  for  me,  and  for  you,  mother  dear.  As  I  look  over  the  past 
year,  as  I  think  of  all  that  has  happened,  though  sad  as  it  seems, 
in  fact  I  am  so  happy,  so  content.  How  can  it  be,  I  ask  myself, 
but  it  is  so. 

But  ever  as  when  I  sit  and  think,  I  see  you  before  me,  mother 
dear.  I  see  you  as  you  were  before  I  left,  and  I  see  you  on  that 
night  of  farewell.  Oh,  mother  dear,  I  have  so  much  I  want  to 
say  to  you;  but  how,  oh,  how  can  I  say  it! 

I  have  often  wondered,  mother  dear,  just  what  you  think, 
and  feel,  and  ask.  Before  my  last  step,  you  know  that  you  were 
to  me  the  dearest,  the  greatest,  the  noblest  that  I  had.  You 
know  that  for  you  was  my  all;  for  you  my  ambition,  for  you 
my  endeavor,  for  you  my  love  and  devotion.  And  then,  as  it 
were,  you  perhaps  think  I  found  something  greater,  something 
nobler.  Perhaps  you  feel  that  though  before  you  were  jfirst, 
now  you  are  only  second.  Perhaps  you  feel  that  today  I  strive 
for  that  first,  my  ambition,  my  endeavor  for  that.  Before  I 
went,  mother  dear,  you  know  it  was  mother  first.  But  perhaps 
you  think  that  after  I  w^ent  it  was  country  first.  But  let  us  be 
frank,  dearest  mother,  and  let  us  see  the  fact  as  it  is. 

Yes,  I  have  given  myself  to  my  country.  Perhaps  you  think 
that  in  thus  giving  myself  I  have  taken  myself  away  from  you, 
I  have  deprived  you  of  myself.  Yes,  I  consider  my  country 
first.  Perhaps,  then,  you  may  think  that  you  can  hold  but 
second  place.  Yes,  my  ambition,  endeavor,  my  love,  my  de- 
votion is  to  my  country  and  for  my  country.  Perhaps  you 
think,  therefore,  that  it  is  not  for  you. 

But,  mother  dearest,  and  here  is  where  I  want  to  be  clear, 
and  lay  the  emphasis. 

What  is  my  country?  Is  it  the  land  of  America?  Yes.  Is 
it  the  world  under  God?  Yes.  Is  it  the  peoples  of  the  world 
who  are  brothers  under  one  father?    Yes.    Is  it  the  institutions 



of  America  and  the  world?    Yes.    Is  it  the  ideals,  the  hopes,  the 
aspirations  of  all?     Yes. 

But  what  personally  and  nearest  to  me  is  my  country?  You. 
Mother  dear,  you,  who  through  hardship  and  privation,  through 
sacrifice  and  almost  slavery,  through  pain,  through  toil,  through 
all  difficulties,  have  nourished  me,  cared  for  me,  reared  me,  edu- 
cated me,  strengthened  me,  put  the  light  of  hope  into  me, 
given  me  vision;  you,  who  gave  me  that  life  which  today  I  offer 
for  the  good  of  all;  you,  mother  dear,  the  first  in  my  soul,  the 
first  in  my  heart,  the  first  in  my  ambition,  my  love,  my  devo- 
tion, you,  you,  you,  are  my  country,  you  are  my  world,  you  are 
the  embodiment  of  what  I  fight  for,  sacrifice  for,  labor  for,  and 
if  need  be,  die  for. 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  make  myself  clear,  it  is  hard  to  be  exact. 
But  I  trust  that  you  can  understand  what  I  am  trying  to  say. 

Oh,  mother  dear,  when  I,  as  it  were,  tore  myself  from  you 
and  left  you,  I  know  not  for  how  long,  it  was  to  you  that  I  gave 
myself.  I  took  myself  away  from  you,  the  seed  that  you  had 
sown.    I  gave  myself  to  you  the  full  grown  fruit. 

There  are  two  of  you,  and  two  of  me.  One  of  me  I  took  away 
from  one  of  you,  the  smaller.  The  other  of  me  I  gave  to  the 
other  of  you,  the  greater,  the  real  one.  I  took  from  you  the 
body  around  my  soul,  and  the  soul  that's  in  me  I  give.  Oh, 
mother,  I  am  4,000  miles  from  you,  farther  than  I  have  ever 
been  before,  and  yet  today  I  am  nearer  to  you  than  ever  before. 
Today  you  have  me  as  you  never  did.  I  used  to  be  your  son, 
now  I  am  you. 

And  it  is  just  because  things  are  so,  mother  dear,  that  I  know 
how  it  will  affect  you  if  it  be  necessary  to  sacrifice  me.  But  I 
know  you,  mother  dearest,  I  know  your  power  of  endurance,  I 
know  your  courage.    And  I  have  ever  perfect  faith  in  you.  .  .  . 

And  so  I  say  to  you,  mother  dearest,  and  I  give  my  message 
oh  the  last  day  of  the  old  year,  keep  up  your  spirits,  and  hope 
on,  strive  on,  fight  on,  and  keep  your  faith  in  God. 

Your  Son. 



Somewhere  in  France, 
February  J^,  1918. 

My  All,  my  Mother: 

I  remember,  mother  dear,  my  promise  to  you  as  I  left  you  on 
that  night  historic  in  my  life.  To  you  I  would  remain  faithful, 
devoted,  and  true.  Thank  God,  I  can  truthfully  say  that  I 
have  remained  to  you  as  I  promised  to,  and  it  is  because  no 
matter  what  the  consequence  may  be,  I  am  still  going  to,  that 
I  take  pen  in  hand  today  and  write  as  I  promised  to,  the  truth ! 

Your  sorrows,  your  grief,  your  great  sacrifice  have  been 
enormous,  I  know.  You  have  been  put  to  a  hard  test  indeed, 
and  oh,  how  proud  I  am  to  know  that  you  have  not  been  found 
wanting.  But  just  as  you  have  so  bravely,  so  courageously,  so 
heroically  stood  the  hardships,  the  sorrows,  the  sacrifices  so  far, 
so  must  you  now,  mother  dearest,  summon  up  all  your  energy, 
all  your  loyalty,  and  above  all,  all  your  faith,  and  stand  the 
next  great  test  that  comes  before  you  in  this  struggle  to  do  your 
duty,  to  do  your  share  in  the  great  task  that  today  confronts 
all  the  children  of  God. 

Where  will  you  get  that  strength?  Where  can  you  find  the 
power  to  keep  you  steady,  trustful,  hopeful,  after  so  much  has 
been  absorbed  in  the  tests  already  passed?  My  dear  mother, 
there  is  but  one  way  that  I  know  of  for  you  to  take. 

Man  is  a  wonderful  creature.  He  can  do  many  things,  en- 
dure many  hardships,  overcome  many  foes,  and  gain  many 
victories.  But  there  is  a  limit  to  the  power  of  the  human  race, 
and  there  comes  a  time  when  the  strength  of  man  himself  can- 
not stand  the  test  before  him.  Let  me  recall  to  your  mind  the 
sufl^erings,  the  hardships,  the  mighty  tasks  before  our  people, 
the  children  of  Israel.  You  know,  mother  dearest,  how  in  doing 
their  mission  in  the  world,  the  Jews,  time  and  time  again,  were 
on  the  point  of  failure.  Every  bit  of  strength,  of  power,  even 
of  hope  was  gone.  They  could  not  mass  up  enough  strength  to 
pull  through.  What  then  did  they  do?  How  then  did  they  come 
forth  gloriously  victorious  in  their  mission  to  the  world? 



They  did,  mother  dear,  just  what  I  want  you  to  do.  They 
may  have  lost  all  strength,  all  hope,  all  trust;  but  never  did 
the  children  of  Israel  lose  faith,  faith,  faith,  unflinching  in  their 
God,  the  God  of  Israel.  And  ever  in  their  distress,  with  a  heart 
and  soul  faithful  to  their  God,  they  would  call  upon  Him,  they 
would  pray  to  Him,  and  Him  they  would  ask  for  the  necessary 

And  not  once  was  He  known  to  be  wanting,  when  implored 
by  His  people  with  a  faithful  and  true  heart.  He  turned  defeat 
into  victory.  He  turned  weariness  into  freshness.  He  turned 
stone  into  water.  He  turned  water  into  dry  land.  He  turned 
despair  into  hope;  and  a  people  defeated,  weary,  hungry, 
thirsty,  down-trodden,  depressed,  mocked  at,  jeered  at,  and 
suffering  the  greatest  hardships  in  the  history  of  the  world.  He 
made  the  glorious  messengers  of  His  gospel.  He  did  so  because 
they  had  faith  in  Him,  and  because  with  a  faithful  heart  they 
asked  for  His  aid,  believing  that  they  would  receive  it. 

And  so  I  say  to  you,  my  dear  mother,  if  you  find  that  the 
hardships  are  becoming  too  severe  to  bear,  if  you  find  that  you 
lack  strength  enough,  courage  enough,  hope  enough  to  stand  the 
test  before  you,  if  you  find  that  the  sacrifice  is  too  great,  if  you 
need  strength,  courage,  hope  —  and  oh,  I  hope  you  have  enough 
of  all,  —  I  know  you  have,  for  I  trust  you  —  then,  my  dear 
mother,  above  all,  keep  your  faith,  unflinching,  undaunted  in 
your  God,  and  ask  Him  for  help,  pray  to  Him,  and  believe  that 
He  will  help  you,  have  faith  in  Him,  ever,  and  I  know  He  will 
help.  He  must  help;  for  He  is  a  kind  God,  a  good  God,  a  true 
God,  when  once  you  learn  to  understand  Him.  No  matter  how 
hard  you  may  have  to  suffer,  no  matter  what  tests  and  sacrifices 
you  must  endure,  keep  your  faith,  your  faith  in  God.  .  .  . 

I  have  often  heard  you  say,  mother  dear,  that  you  were  sorry 
your  mother  gave  you  birth.  I  know  you  did  n't  mean  it. 
Your  life  has  been  a  hard  one,  an  exceptionally  hard  one.  Your 
sacrifices  have  been  many  and  very  great.  But,  mother  dear, 
you  have  been  blessed.    For  as  I  look  about  at  my  comrades. 



as  I  associate  with  them,  as  I  learn  their  thoughts  and  ideas,  I 
am  given  one  impression  especially.  The  greatest  blessing  God 
gives  carries  with  it  the  greatest  hardships  and  sacrifices.  For 
I  am  firmly  convinced  that  the  greatest  blessing  God  has  to 
give  is  the  blessing  of  being  a  mother.  For  the  meaning  of 
"mother"  to  a  son  is  too  great  for  words.  "Mother"  means 
almost  something  super-human.  "Mother"  is  an  ideal. 
"Mother"  is  the  angel  of  God  sent  to  a  son.  .  .  . 

You  have  been  to  me  my  love,  my  happiness,  my  all  —  my 
mother.    I  have  tried  to  be  to  you 

Your  faithful 


The  boy  who  wrote  these  letters  was  the  only  son  of 
Morris  Lasser,  of  Houston,  Texas,  and  Fanny  (Antin) 
Lasser.  He  was  born  in  East  Boston,  Massachusetts, 
October  17,  1898.  His  mother's  maiden  name  will  recall 
to  many  American  readers  that  extraordinary  book, 
"The  Promised  Land,"  by  Mary  Antin,  which  describes 
the  transplanting  of  a  Russian  Jewish  family  from  Polotzk 
to  Boston,  and  revealed  in  particular  the  response  of  its 
writer  to  the  opportunities  of  a  new  land.  They  will  per- 
haps recall  in  particular  the  many  references  to  an  older 
sister,  living  after  her  marriage  in  East  Boston,  where 
the  baby  romped  in  his  high  chair  when  the  visiting  school- 
girl aunt  read  her  translations  from  Latin  poets  to  the 
ardently  interested  young  mother.  It  was  of  this  sister 
also  that  Mary  Antin  wrote:  "Her  eyes  shone  like  stars 
on  a  moonless  night  when  I  explained  to  her  how  she  and 
I  and  George  Washington  were  Fellow  Citizens  together." 

From  such  sources  of  patriotism,  rather  than  from 
ancestry  of  the  kind  that  explains  and  places  many  other 



young  soldiers  as  Americans,  Ralph  Lasser  drew  his  pas- 
sionate devotion  to  the  country  of  his  birth.  A  consider- 
able portion  of  his  boyhood  was  passed  in  Houston,  Texas. 
A  contributor  to  a  Jewish  journal  of  that  place  wrote  of 
him  after  his  death :  "He  was  an  eleven  year  old  boy  when 
I  first  knew  him.  But  even  at  that  age,  all  who  came  in 
touch  with  him  could  see  that  there  was  the  making  in 
him  of  a  genius  and  of  an  idealist.  The  delicate  features, 
the  black  silky  hair,  the  soft  dreamy  eyes,  the  thin  lips, 
the  gentle  voice,  all  these  gave  evidence  of  refinement  and 
of  depth  of  feeling."  In  1912  he  returned  to  Boston  and 
attended  the  Latin  School,  from  which  he  graduated  in 
1916.  He  entered  Harvard  College  in  the  autumn  of  that 
year,  without  a  definite  purpose  beyond  that  of  educating 
himself;  but  in  the  course  of  his  abbreviated  freshman  year 
he  decided  to  become  a  rabbi.  He  joined  the  Menorah 
Society,  and  received  a  Franklin  Scholarship. 

Of  what  he  meant  to  those  who  knew  him  best  in  these 
days,  his  friend  and  classmate,  Arthur  W.  Marget,  wrote 
in  The  Jeivish  Advocate: 

Ralph  was  nineteen  years  old  —  well  under  the  draft  age; 
he  was,  at  the  moment  of  his  embarking  for  France,  about  to 
enter  the  Sophomore  Class  at  Harvard;  he  died  as  a  Private 
in  the  101st  Engineers.  Every  point  of  the  glorious  story  of  his 
sacrifice,  it  seems  to  me,  requires  to  be  explained  to  those  who 
did  not  know  of  him  and  of  his  idealism. 

Already  a  college  man,  detesting  the  idea  of  war  with  all  the 
power  of  his  great  soul,  he  went  to  France  and  to  his  death  not 
for  the  love  of  the  fight  or  the  thrill  of  the  moment;  he  went  only 
after  long  communion  with  himself  and  with  another  Power  he 
felt  to  be  with  him  in  all  that  he  did.    Under  the  draft  age,  and 



barely  eligible  for  service  in  the  army,  he  enlisted  at  the  out- 
break of  the  war  in  the  old  First  Corps  Cadets  —  now  the  101st 
Engineers  —  he,  a  college  man,  as  a  Private;  because  this 
seemed  to  him,  at  the  moment,  the  only  way  in  which  he  could 
satisfy  his  conscience.  .  .  . 

The  afternoon  before  he  left,  as  we  were  walking  together 
in  Franklin  Park,  he  in  his  uniform  and  I  in  my  civilians,  he 
told  me,  very  quietly  and  very  calmly,  that  he  felt  his  duty  to 
be  threefold:  to  his  country,  to  his  God,  and  to  his  mother,  — 
who  felt  as  only  does  a  mother  feel  when  she  sends  her  only  son 
to  war.  The  first  two,  he  said,  he  could  reconcile;  the  third, 
he  could  not  at  that  moment  reconcile  with  the  other  two; 
but  he  had  enough  confidence  in  what  he  was  about  to  do  to 
believe  that  when  the  final  reckoning  came,  the  three  would  be 
blended  to  a  perfect  unity. 

He  told  me  again,  on  the  same  afternoon,  just  as  quietly  and 
calmly,  that  his  whole  sacrifice  had  already  been  made.  He  had 
hurt  his  mother  by  his  going,  —  and  that  was  his  sacrifice.  As 
for  what  was  to  come,  he  had  no  fear.  If  the  worst  was  to 
happen,  he  did  not  believe  —  because  he  could  not  —  that  it 
all  ended  with  the  machine-gun  and  the  shell-fire.  There  must 
be  something,  he  said,  beyond;  and  in  that  "beyond"  he  placed 
his  faith. 

One  more  word,  in  this  letter  to  be  read  by  the  Jewish  com- 
munity of  Boston,  about  the  Jewishness  of  Ralph  Lasser.  His 
life  was,  he  felt,  his  Judaism  vivified;  not  because  he  was  metic- 
ulous about  religious  observance,  but  because  he  was  steeped 
to  the  depths  of  his  great  soul  in  the  spirit  of  Jewish  sacrifice 
for  Jewish  idealism.  Lest  I  should  be  thought  to  be  viewing  the 
whole  matter  from  a  twisted  angle,  I  mention  this  one  fact. 
He  had  intended,  if  he  lived,  to  study  for  the  rabbinate,  not 
through  desire  for  the  position  it  offered,  or  the  openings  it 
afforded,  but  for  the  one  opportunity  that  it  presented  above 
all  others  —  service. 

"My  only  aim  in  life  —  is  to  serve,"  he  told  me  in  his  quiet 



way,  a  year  before  America  entered  the  war,  as  we  were  walking 
together  one  evening  in  the  Harvard  Yard,  —  the  thoughts  of 
both  of  us  far  removed  from  the  war,  of  all  things.  "If  I  can 
serve  humanity  best  as  a  flower  peddler  or  a  bootblack,  at  six 
dollars  a  week,  I'll  do  that;    only  —  I  must  serve." 

The  war  came.  His  ideal  was  still  to  serve,  God  knows  how 
he  had  sacrificed  his  all,  to  the  last  ounce  of  his  strength,  to  the 
Jewish  ideal  of  a  mission,  for  service  to  humanity.  He  wrote 
to  me  a  few  months  before  he  died,  begging  me  to  send  him  some 
Jewish  books.  Surely,  wherever  the  soul  of  Ralph  Lasser  is  at 
this  moment,  he  would  not  wish  to  be  remembered  other  than 
what  he  stood  and  lived  for,  even  to  his  death :  a  Jewish  soldier 
in  the  service  of  humanity. 

In  a  memorial  collection  of  themes  written  by  members 
of  "English  A"  at  Harvard  and  preserved  at  Warren 
House,  the  headquarters  of  that  course,  there  is  a  page  of 
Lasser's  manuscript.  It  describes  the  securing  of  his 
mother's  consent  to  leave  college  and  enlist  for  the  war. 
Thus  it  reads : 

After  several  minutes  of  silence  I  said,  "We  must  all  give 
everything  we  have,  even  that  which  is  nearest  and  dearest. 
I  do,  mother  dear,  realize  your  sacrifice,  your  feeling,  your  de- 
voted affection  and  care.  But  I  am  sure  that  in  this  hour  of 
test,  you  will  give  all  and  make  the  greatest  sacrifice.  We  have 
received  from  our  dear  country  everything,  and  now  we  are 
called  upon  to  render  service  in  return.  I  want  to  serve  my 
country;  I  want  to  serve  you,  my  dear  mother.  Can  I  not  do 
them  both,  or  must  I  do  one  and  not  the  other?  Must  I  make 
a  choice?  Please  don't  make  me  choose,  but  do  you  as  a  true 
American  mother  give  me  your  consent  and  let  me  feel  when 
on  the  battlefield  I  lie  that  I  have  left  behind  not  only  a  mother 
than  whom  none  is  dearer,  but  a  true  American  than  whom 
none  is  more  loyal." 

For  almost  a  quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  silence.     My 



mother  was  sobbing  bitterly,  and  from  my  eyes  a  tear  fell  now 
and  then.  Soon  I  heard  my  mother  say,  in  sobs,  yet  with  for- 
giveness, "Go,  my  son,  I  will  not  stand  in  your  way,  only  may 
the  good  God  save  you  and  bring  you  back  to  me." 

With  this  consent  Lasser  joined  the  regiment  of  Engi- 
neers, the  101st,  into  which  the  First  Corps  of  Cadets  in 
Boston  was  converted.  In  the  summer  of  1917  he  and 
his  comrades  received  their  special  training  for  service 
overseas  at  the  Went  worth  Institute  in  Boston.  On 
September  26  they  sailed  from  New  York  for  Liverpool. 
Besides  the  letters  from  France  that  have  already  been 
quoted  Lasser  wrote  many  others,  charged  with  the  same 
intensity  and  exaltation  of  feeling.  The  same  spirit  of 
idealism  and  devotion  found  expression  in  the  pages  of 
the  two  pocket  note-books,  in  the  first  of  which,  in- 
scribed "Important  days  and  days  of  thought,"  Lasser 
began  to  record  his  impressions  and  sentiments  from  the 
very  day  his  regiment  left  Boston.  From  these  pages,  and 
from  those  of  a  smaller  "Line  a  Day"  diary  in  which  he 
made  rough  jottings  even  through  part  of  the  final  week 
of  his  life,  the  following  passages  are  taken.  On  their 
significance,  in  the  light  of  the  boy's  age  and  personal 
history,  it  is  needless  to  comment. 

Monday,  September  2J^,  1917. 

.  .  .  Left  Boston  about  12.30  [a.m.  Sept.  25]  from  train  yards 
behind  Mechanics  Building.  Thought  only  of  the  folks  at 
home  and  fell  asleep  thinking  of  my  dear  little  sister. 

Wednesday,  26. 

Left  port  [New  York]  at  7  a.m.  Saw  the  shores  of  America 
for  the  last  time  for  I  know  not  how  long.  Proud  to  be  able  to 
go  and  serve  that  land  of  liberty  and  democracy. 



Friday,  28. 

At  about  2  o'clock  we  saw  the  first  bit  of  land,  and  my  heart 

was  filled  with  joy  at  seeing  it.    About  half  an  hour  later  we 

entered  the  port  of  Halifax  where  we  saw  many  battle  and 

troopships.    As  we  passed  the  ships  of  our  allies,  our  band  played 

their  national  anthems  and  we  stood  at  salute.    In  the  distance 

I  saw  what  looked  to  me  familiar,  and  sure  enough  there  on  high 

proudly  floated  the  Star  Spangled  Banner.    You  can't  realize 

what  it  means  to  see  Old  Glory  until  you  are  on  a  voyage  such 

as  ours,  and  have  been  beyond  her  folds  for  several  days.    The 

flag  floated  over  a  small  American  cruiser,  the  smallest  in  the 

harbor,  but  there  was  a  part  of  America,  and  maybe  we  did  n't 

all  cheer  ourselves  hoarse. 

Saturday,  29. 

I  am  on  guard  on  the  boat  today.  About  5  p.m.  we  pulled 
out  of  Halifax,  our  band  playing  as  we  passed  the  ships  of  our 
allies.  There  are  about  eight  ships  besides  our  own,  all  with 
British  flags,  including  ours,  going  together.  There  are  two  or 
three  troopships  and  the  rest  are  convoys.  It  feels  good  to  see 
other  ships  always  in  sight.  We  put  on  our  life  belts  when  we 
left  the  harbor,  and  must  keep  them  constantly  with  us  through 
the  voyage.  During  my  relief  on  guard,  from  3-5  a.m.,  I 
thought  of  the  dear  old  folks  at  home.  And  ever  there  comes 
to  my  mind  how  bravely  my  dear  mother  sent  me  off  and  now 
I  realize  that  I  was  right,  and  not  without  ground  did  I  have 
such  faith  in  her  and  claim  that  it  was  only  a  temporary  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  her.  Only  God  can  repay  her,  for  her 
brave  and  heroic  sacrifice.  The  country  can't  and  I  can't 
enough,  though  I  will  try  as  much  as  I  can. 

Sunday,  30. 

.  .  .  The  day  is  dark  and  dreary,  and  as  I  lean  over  the  rail 
and  gaze  into  the  distance  I  can  see  such  an  immeasurable 
expanse  of  water,  water,  water.  And  just  as  I  always  like  to  do 
at  night  and  on  dark  days,  I  look  for  that  dim  light  that  I  always 



used  to  find  beyond  the  darkness,  usually  from  some  street 
lamp  or  window. 

But  today  as  I  look  there  is  not  a  light  to  be  seen,  only  water, 
water.  And  at  the  end  of  my  vision  it  seems  as  if  the  water  all 
rolled  off,  and  there's  the  end. 

But  though  no  real  light  is  there,  yet  I  can  see  a  light,  for  I 
know  that  the  water  does  not  roll  off  but  extends  further  and 
further,  inevitably  on.  Just  as  that  thought  to  Columbus  meant 
the  discovery  of  God's  last  great  gift  to  mankind,  America,  so 
does  that  fact  to  me  mean  the  discovery  of  God's  newest  and 
greatest  gift  to  humanity,  not  a  continent  but  an  ideal,  uni- 
versal, everlasting  peace,  accomplished  through  the  unflinching 
service  and  enormous  sacrifice  of  the  sons  and  especially  of  the 
mothers  of  that  country  which  God  last  gave.  .  .  , 

And  so  with  the  rest  of  the  boys  I  go  on,  and  get  nearer  the 
land  where  the  deeds  must  be  done.  And  I  have  my  little 
battles  long  before  I  reach  the  firing  line.  The  greatest  of  these 
at  present  is  homesickness,  that  everlasting  love  and  devotion 
which  draws  me  to  my  loved  ones. 

Through  those  battles  I  can  ever  find  happiness,  the  true, 
real,  only  happiness.  And  though  the  dark  be  dark  and  dreary, 
though  I'm,  as  it  were,  sad,  lonely,  homesick,  yet,  as  I  say, 
in  my  heart  glows  the  fire  of  hope  warming  my  whole  body, 
and  in  my  soul  beams  the  light,  of,  of  —  happiness.  Oh!  may 
my  dear,  brave  mother  share  that  happiness  with  me. 

Tuesday,  9. 

When  I  woke  up  I  could  see  land  far  in  the  distance,  and  I 
cannot  tell  how  glad  I  was  to  see  it.  There  was  much  beautiful 
scenery  along  the  English  coast.  Arrived  in  the  harbor  of 
Liverpool  at  about  6.30  p.m.  Thus  did  my  faith  in  God  at  the 
outset  lead  me  safely  to  land,  and  thus  did  I  best  the  Kaiser 
in  the  first  lap  of  the  race.  It  certainly  has  every  indication 
that  we  will  thus  win  the  whole  race  and  victory. 

Pulled  out  of  Liverpool  about  12.30  a.m. 



Wednesday,  10. 

About  4  A.M.  we  stopped  at  a  station  where  we  were  served 
hot  coffee.  I  was  greatly  impressed  by  the  eagerness  of  the 
young  women,  who,  though  they  looked  all  tired  out,  were 
anxious  and  glad  to  serve  us.  In  them,  there  at  four  in  the 
morning,  working  hard,  I  saw  the  spirit  I  wanted  to  find  among 
the  English. 

Passed  through  some  very  beautiful  country  this  morning. 
Stopped  at  Oxford  for  a  while.  Passed  a  German  prison  camp. 
Saw  many  straw  huts  and  many  small  cottages  on  the  farms. 
Arrived  at  Southampton  about  10  a.m.  Marched  through  a 
section  of  the  city  singing  and  cheering,  and  were  cheered  by 
the  townspeople.  Encamped  at  the  Rest  Camp  for  British 
troops  and  all  troops  that  are  soon  to  cross  the  channel.  .  .  . 

Thursday,  11. 

A  little  English  girl  today  shouted  to  me  that  if  I  would  catch 

the  apple  which  she  had  in  her  hand  I  could  have  it.    I  declined 

on  catching  it,  but  she  insisted  that  I  keep  it.   As  I  walked  away 

I  thought  of  how  perhaps  that  was  the  only  apple  she  could  get 

for  a  long  time,  and  how  eager  she  was  to  give  it  to  me.    Her 

father  or  brother  is  very  likely  at  the  front,  or  perhaps  he  is  no 

longer  there.    I  am  proud  indeed  that  I  can  make  my  humble 

sacrifice  that  she  may  find  the  world  better  when  she  grows  up 

than  it  is  today.    And  my  mind  flies  away,  and  I  think  of  my 

dear  little  sister  at  home,  and  oh !  I  'm  so  homesick  and  yet  so 

happy,  truly  happy. 

Wednesday,  17. 

Today  is  my  birthday.  Little  did  I  dream  a  year  ago  that 
today  I  would  be  where  I  am,  doing  that  which  I  am  doing. 
But  ever  since  I  have  been  old  enough  to  understand  I  knew 
that  should  such  a  need  for  my  service  arise,  I  would  never  fail 
my  country  and  my  God. 

Little  did  my  dear  mother  dream  nineteen  years  ago  that  she 
would  have  to  sacrifice  that  which  she  suffered  so  to  bring  into 
the  world.    And  little  did  any  one  think  at  that  time  that  the 



child  born  in  the  tenement  of  East  Boston  would  go  forth  to 
give  his  all  that  the  children  later  to  be  born  might  have  a 
better,  truer,  peaceful  world  to  live  in. 

Thank  God  He  gave  me  life  and  strength  these  nineteen  years 
to  be  available  to  my  country.  May  He  continue  in  His  good- 
ness and  may  He  make  me  able  to  be  of  service  in  the  present 
crisis.  If  He  will  it  so,  may  He  send  me  back  to  my  dear  folks 
to  do  my  duty  to  them  as  they  have  done  theirs  for  me  and  my 
country.  But  if  it  be  fated  otherwise,  and  my  God  wills  that 
my  life  be  one  of  the  many  sacrificed  in  the  achievement  of  our 
cause,  then  in  true  faith  to  Him,  and  ever  trusting  in  Him,  I 
shall  make  my  sacrifice  as  a  man,  an  American,  a  son  of  Israel. 

Friday,  19. 
Awoke  to  find  myself  in  the  French  port  of  Havre.  Thus  am 
I  now  safe  from  the  peril  of  submarines,  and,  thank  God,  I'm 
through  crossing  waters.  Whatever  waters  I  cross  from  now  on 
will  be  in  a  military  manner,  perhaps  I  will  have  to  help  bridge 
the  waters.  How  proud  I  am  to  be  on  the  soil  of  that  plucky, 
heroic,  unconquerable  Republic  which  has  been  such  a  friend, 
a  true  and  faithful  friend  to  my  own  dear  country  since  its 
birth.  Thank  God  I  have  the  chance  to  help  my  country  repay 
its  debt  to  France,  and  to  help  that  Republic  in  its  fight  with  us 
for  peace,  universal  and  everlasting,  for  democracy,  for  free- 
dom. We  had  a  long,  hard,  uphill  march  from  the  docks  to 
camp.  It  was  very  hard  indeed  and  taxed  the  strength  and 
endurance  of  every  man.  Many  had  to  drop  out  and  be  taken 
in  automobiles.  What  kept  me  going  I  don't  know,  but  some- 
how I  think  the  spirit  I  felt,  the  determination  and  zeal  that 
has  ever  been  with  me,  put  strength  into  my  limbs  and  renewed 
effort  into  my  powers  all  over,  and  I  made  good,  stuck  it  out, 
and  marched  into  camp  in  as  fit  condition  as  any  man.  .  .  . 

Monday,  22. 
After  a  whole  day  of  traveling  we  arrived  about  3.30  p.m., 
at  a  small  French  country  village  knoi^Ti  as  Rolampont,  not 



far  from  Langres,  near  the  river  Marne.  We  encamp  in  the 
barns  and  empty  rooms  of  the  inhabitants.  We,  as  it  were, 
invade  the  little  village  —  only  as  friends  not  conquerors.  How 
glad  the  people  are  to  see  us,  and  how  they  love  us  all.  My 
little  French,  and  you  bet  it's  but  little,  helps  me  along  greatly. 
We  get  out  barrack  bags  and  I  get  out  my  French  books  and 
manage  to  converse  with  the  townspeople.  I  learn  that  we  are 
not  over  80  miles  from  the  front,  and  about  120  miles  or  so  from 
Paris.  We  are  just  north  of  Switzerland,  and  not  far  from 
Verdun,  The  river  Marne  flows  within  seven  miles  of  this 
place,  and  through  the  town  there  runs  a  canal  leading  to  that 
river.  Thus,  you  see,  we  are  very  near  the  place  where  the 
bloodiest  fighting  of  the  war  took  place,  and  where  the  French 
heroically  withstood  the  invader.  .  .  . 

November  1,  1917. 

The  first  day  of  the  month,  and  a  red  letter  day  indeed  for 
me.  In  the  afternoon  the  regiment  marched  up  to  a  fort 
nearby.  .  .  .  Quite  a  remarkable  piece  of  work.  But  I  enjoyed 
much  more  looking  out  over  the  country  from  a  high  place.  As 
I  looked  over  the  country,  beautiful  indeed,  and  as  I  saw  the 
many  hills  nearby,  it  reminded  me  of  the  New  England  hills, 
and  oh,  how  homesick  I  felt. 

But  what  awaited  me  that  night  —  the  greatest  thing  I  could 
have  gotten  at  that  time,  mail  from  home,  the  first  mail. 
Maybe  my  heart  was  n't  filled  with  joy.  Quickly  and  eagerly 
I  read  my  six  letters  and  then  went  on  a  night  walk  all  by  my 
lonesome.  And  as  I  looked  into  the  starlit  sky  the  world  was 
mine,  and  my  faith  and  trust  is  with  ground  indeed. 

How  happy  I  am  to  learn  of  my  dearest  aunt's  good  fortune, 
and  by  it  I  see  my  trust  in  God  to  take  care  of  my  dear  ones  is 
very  much  worth  while.  All  the  letters  cheer  me  so,  but  of 
course  the  one  I  saved  for  last,  my  dear  mother's,  though  it 
makes  me  happy,  sends  a  tear  down  my  cheek. 

And  as  I  walked  'neath  the  starry  sky  of  France,  I  think, 
and  think  but  I  cannot  write,  my  pen  simply  won't  move.    This 



I  know.  I  am  so  happy,  truly  happy,  the  happiness  that  comes 
when  you  least  expect,  from  quarters  where  sadness  seems  to 
fill  the  air. 

How  I  was  glad  to  see  the  line  of  eager  soldiers  as  they  went 
to  get  their  mails.  I  have  seen  a  line  of  hungry  soldiers  eager 
for  their  food,  but  a  line  of  eager  soldiers  hungry  for  the  first 
mail  from  home  is  a  scene  that  it  takes  a  poet  to  describe. 

Now  as  I  stop  this  scribbling  and  poor  attempt  to  write  what 
I  want  to,  I  am  going  to  sleep  and  think,  and  think,  and  dream. 
My  trust,  my  zeal,  my  spirit,  my  faith  I  know  will  keep  me  on 
and  on,  and  to  my  dying  day  I  shall  be  happy,  happy,  happy. 
Here's  to  my  dear  ones'  love  and  love  again,  and,  still  thinking, 
let  me  stop  writing. 

Sunday,  November  ^. 

Today  I  attended  Regimental  Church  services  and  am 
determined  hereafter  to  attend  them  every  Sunday.  Though 
my  thoughts  have  been  deep  right  along,  I  feel  the  need  of  such 
inspiration  as  the  services  give  me. 

I  am  glad  to  see  the  human  side  of  soldiering,  but  oh,  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  and  take  part  in  the  superhuman  side.  As  the 
regiment  stood  at  attention,  the  engineer  flag  was  slightly 
lowered  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  raised  on  high.  Then  we 
all  raised  our  right  hands,  and,  led  by  the  chaplain,  we  pledged 
allegiance  to  our  flag.  What  an  impression  that  made  on  me, 
words  can  never  explain.  For  here  we  are  reciting  that  well- 
known  pledge,  and  in  every  syllable  I  can  hear  the  trueness  of 
those  words.  Never  can  we  be  accused  of  saying  those  words 
without  meaning  them,  for  on  a  quiet  day  we  can  hear  the  roar 
of  the  cannon  on  the  front  where  soon  we  will  take  our  stand 
to  live  up  to  the  pledge  we  make  to  that  flag.  Thank  God  I 
can  be  one  of  those  proud  young  Americans  to  stand  beneath 
that  flag  today  and  pledge  allegiance  to  it. 

A  gentleman  from  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  of  America  came  to  us 
today  and  spoke  to  us  on  the  romance  of  religion.  He  told  us 
of  how  soldiers  can  see  romance  in  the  darkest  things  of  war. 



And  what  gladdened  my  heart  was  when  he  said  that  the 
soldiers  in  the  trenches  could  see  in  the  mud  of  France,  in  the 
bullets  overhead,  in  the  hardships  of  the  war,  the  onward 
march  of  liberty  and  freedom,  and  the  coming  of  peace  ever- 

For  so  it  is  with  me.  Hard  as  work  may  be,  uncomfortable 
as  conditions  may  feel,  I  can  see  in  the  very  hardness  of  the 
work,  in  the  uncomfort  of  conditions,  in  the  mud  and  dirt 
about  me,  in  the  blood  and  wounds  and  dead,  I  can  see  the 
brighter  side  and,  as  Julia  Ward  Howe,  I  can  see  "the  coming 
of  the  Lord."  For,  after  all.  He  is  coming  to  us  with  His  help, 
and  in  a  victory  for  the  Allies  He  is  bringing  to  us  blessings 
such  as  we  have  never  known  before. 

I  sit  as  I  write  beside  the  canal  that  runs  through  this  town. 

Of  all  the  slow  things  I  have  ever  seen,  the  slowest  is  one  of  these 

canal  boats  pulled  by  horses.    It  almost  makes  me  nervous  to 

watch  it.     But  then  I  think  of  how  we  are  moving  forward  in 

this  war.     Just  as  the  boat  goes  slow,  so,  too,  do  we  and  our 

allies.    But  also,  just  as  the  boat  goes  sure  and  reaches  its  goal 

in  the  end,  so,  too,  are  we  going  sure  and  I  know  we  will  reach 

the  goal.  .  •  . 

November  29. 

Thanksgiving  Day.    Had  a  real  Thanksgiving  Dinner. 

But  the  real  significance  of  the  day  ever  remains  with  me. 
How  much  today  I  have  to  be  thankful  for.  Now  when  it  ap- 
pears that  I  have  least  I  really  have  most.  For  today  I  have 
health,  strength,  courage,  hope,  and  faith.     What  more  could 

a  man  ask  for  at  once. 

December  31. 

.  .  .  It  is  the  last  day  of  the  year.  And  some  year  indeed  has 
this  been  for  me.  And  now  as  I  look  out  of  my  window,  com- 
fortable and  content  as  I  am ;  as  I  look  out  upon  the  snow-cov- 
ered street  of  this  French  village;  as  I  see  passing  before  me 
children,  women,  old  men,  and  fellow-soldiers;  as  I  think  of 
the  war,  and  all  that  hinges  on  it;   as  I  let  my  mind  leap  across 



the  ocean  to  my  dear  ones;  as  I  think,  and  think,  and  think, 

of  the  world  and  those  to  come  into  it;   through  it  all  hot  and 

cold  seems  to  come  through  my  whole  frame.     I  am  chilled, 

and  then,  I'm  hot;  and  where  I  try  to  say  something,  I  cannot. 

I  am  clogged,  as  it  were.     But  this  I  say  to  myself  as  I  have 

never  said  it  before,  to  myself  as  I  have  never  said  it  to  anyone ; 

and  with  this  I  say  goodbye  to  the  old  year  and  go  courageously 

into  the  new. 

Tuesday,  January  22, 1918. 

Went  up  to  a  small  camp  for  German  prisoners  nearby.  They 
live  there  under  very  favorable  conditions.  Have  plenty  to 
eat.  Cut  wood.  Had  an  extended  conversation  with  a  German 
non-com.  He  was  well  satisfied.  Said  that  the  German  people 
had  no  real  hatred  for  their  enemies.  Said  the  Kaiser  did  not 
rule  Germany.  Said  the  people  did.  Is  he  deceived  or  not? 
How  well  the  Germans  and  the  French  guards  get  along.  Oh, 
what  war  is !  Takes  men  who  love  each  other,  as  is  the  natural 
love  of  man  for  man,  and  makes  them  enemies.  Oh,  may  God 
make  us  able  to  gain  such  a  victory  as  will  make  this  war  the 
last  war  for  man  on  earth  and  thus  let  us  give  vent  to  the  real 
worth  of  man,  God's  product,  and  thus  we  may  rise  nearer  to 
our  ideal,  w^hen  earth  shall  rise  nearer  to  heaven,  and  when 
man  in  rising  shall  get  nearer  to  his  God. 

Wednesday,  23. 

Left  Chantraines  today  for  a  small  towm  very  near,  Liffol  le 
Grand,  where  there  are  many  infantry,  machine  gun,  and  am- 
bulance. Nice  big  Y.  M.  C.  A.  At  last  I  will  have  a  chance  to 
spend  my  evenings  in  a  place  other  than  the  cafes  so  unpleasing 
to  me.  Saw  a  basket  ball  game  in  the  P.  M.  Saw  infantry 
drilling  and  heard  the  machine  guns  roar  away.  Smoke  all 
about  from  the  firing.  We  are  now  very  near  the  front  and 
undoubtedly  after  a  short,  stiff  training  we'll  go  forward  to 
take  our  place  in  that  line  which  keeps  the  rest  of  the  world 
safe  for  democracy.  War  is  becoming  more  real  every  day.  I 
am  glad  to  get  away  from  barrack  buildings  in  jerk  towns  on 



this  condition.  Although  I  reahze  the  dangers  and  hardships 
before  me,  I  am  by  no  means  upset,  or  weakened  in  my  de- 
termination and  zeal.  I  hope  to  be  one  of  the  lucky  ones  to 
come  out  all  right,  but  if  my  fate  be  otherwise,  I  am  ready  and 

Thursday,  2^. 

Today  was  a  warm,  beautiful  day,  just  like  spring  in  the  dear 
old  States.  I  stood  up  on  the  hill  where  our  barrack  is  and  looked 
down  into  the  plain  below  where  the  other  troops  are.  I  could 
see  the  scattered  lines  of  infantry  drilling.  I  could  see  the  smoke 
of  guns,  I  could  hear  the  steady  roar,  and  the  repeated  shots 
of  machine  guns.  All  was  a  beautiful,  a  wonderful  sight.  And 
oh,  what  a  feeling  came  over  me.  First  of  joy,  then  sorrow.  I 
thought  of  it  all  and  what  it  all  meant.  I  thought  of  those 
men,  and  how  many  would  never  come  back.  I  thought  of 
those  guns,  and  how  they  would  mow  down  our  brothers  in  the 
enemy's  lines.  I  thought  of  these  men,  and  how  they  would 
sacrifice  all  for  the  noble  cause.  I  thought  of  the  mothers,  and 
wives,  the  sweethearts,  the  children  at  home,  who  may  never 
again  see  their  dear  ones.  And  oh,  what  a  feeling,  oh,  what 
thoughts.  Words  were  never  made  which  could  describe  them. 
Oh,  it  was  God  that  was  with  me,  God  that  spoke  to  me.  But 
what  He  said  must  be  felt,  it  cannot  be  told  in  words.  But, 
somehow  as  in  a  dream  He  seemed  to  say  to  me:  —  "Ralph, 
your  turn  is  soon  to  come.  Are  you  ready?"  And  still  as  in  a 
dream,  with  chills  going  through  me  I  felt  that  I  straightened 
up,  peered  into  the  beautiful  skies  above  me,  and  not  from  my 
mouth  but  from  my  heart,  my  mind,  my  soul,  my  all,  I  answered, 


Monday,  28. 

Started  in  digging  practice  trenches  today.  Now  the  real 
tough  training  starts,  six  hours  on  and  twelve  off.  Night  work. 
And  I  'm  mighty  glad  to  get  down  to  the  grind  of  war.  I  know 
it's  got  to  be  done  and  I  know  I'll  make  good.  Soon  I  expect 
we  '11  be  doing  the  actual  work  at  the  front,  and  I  'm  willing  and 



ready  to  take  my  place  in  that  line  of  men  which  holds  back 
the  enemy.  .  .  . 

Saturday,  February  9. 

Arrived  at  Soissons  today.  That  city  shows  the  ravages  of 
war,  simply  awful.  Hardly  a  building  with  a  roof,  and  all  were 
of  stone.  So  many  razed  to  the  ground.  Almost  no  window 
panes  in  the  town.  .   .  . 

Went  through  a  section  of  the  trenches  and  fortifications 
formerly  held  by  the  Germans.  Situated  on  a  high  hill,  the  city 
of  Soissons  in  the  valley  below  was  an  easy  target  for  the  guns 
of  the  enemy,  and  the  enemy  certainly  used  them  as  a  target, 
too.  How  on  earth  they  were  ever  driven  from  that  stronghold 
I  cannot  comprehend,  but  they  were,  and  that  is  why  tonight 
I  can  sleep  on  that  hill. 

Expect  to  hike  further  on  tomorrow,  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  front.  All  our  moving  now  is  on  foot  because  we  are  too 
near  the  front  to  go  by  train.  And  maybe  that  pack  of  mine 
is  n't  heavy ,  it 's  a-wf ul !  But  I  know  I'll  make  good.  I'll  exert 
all  the  strength  I  can  summon,  and  onward  we  will  go  to  our 

Must  wear  gas  mask  all  the  time  now.  Can  have  no  lights 
at  night.  Must  always  be  prepared  to  take  shelter  from  air- 

I  've  seen  the  devastation  of  war,  I  've  seen  the  line  formerly 
of  the  enemy,  I've  walked  across  what  was  once  "No  Man's 
Land"  in  one  of  the  most  terrible  and  bloody  sections  of  the 
fight.  And  with  my  spirit,  my  determination,  and  my  hopes 
undaunted  I  go  on,  on  to  my  post,  with  faith  in  God  ever, 
and  love,  love,  love  for  my  dear  ones,  my  dear  old  mother 
there  at  home.  May  the  Lord  bless  her  and  keep  her  and  may 
it  be  His  will  to  bring  me  back  to  her.    Amen. 

From  this  time  forth  the  entries,  confined  to  the  "Line 
a  Day"  diary,  are  mere  notes,  chiefly  recording  the  day's 
work  —  on   trenches,   roads,    sick    horses,    dugouts,    the 



receipt  of  letters  and  packages  from  home,  and  the  boy's 
dehght  in  getting  them.  There  are  many  notes  of  "heavy 
artillery  at  night,"  and  on  May  5  comes  this  item :  "Went 
to  the  front  line  tonight  to  dig.  First  time  in  front  line. 
Some  sensation.  An  awful  dark,  rainy,  miserable  night. 
Nothing  doing,  so  all  came  back  O.  K.,  only  so  hungry 
and  so  sleepy."  Often  there  is  nothing  but  the  single 
word  "Worked":  on  May  23  it  is  "Worked;  saw  Elsie 
Janis" — ^  this  on  May  23,  while  back  of  the  front  line. 
On  June  5  the  jotting  reads:  "Worked.  Left  about  6.30 
for  Beaumont,  about  nine  kilos  nearer  the  front.  Arrived 
there  about  11  p.m.  Live  in  dugout  much  better  than 
some.  This  town  pretty  well  shot  up.  We  relieve  A  Co., 
who's  been  having  it  here  for  two  months."  June  7: 
"Was  captain's  orderly  and  answered  the  telephone. 
Some  strain!  On  gas  guard  from  9  p.m.  to  1.30  a.m.  Gave 
two  alarms  for  a  few  gas  shells.  Bombarded  at  midnight 
and  about  1  a.m.  shrapnel  fell  near  me  while  I  had  my 
gas  mask  on  and  was  in  the  doorway  of  a  dugout."  June  9 : 
"On  guard  from  9  to  1,30.  A  good-sized  bombardment 
evening,  hit  ammunition  dump  and  caused  a  big  fire 
which  lasted  all  night.  Some  gas  came  over  and  many 
shells.  An  awful  night,  and  I  was  tired  out  and  my 
nerves  are  on  edge." 

The  last  entry  of  all  was  on  June  11:  "On  guard.  Big 
bombardment  on  both  sides.  Some  night!"  The  days  of 
the  week,  for  two  weeks  more,  are  pencilled  opposite  the 
dates  in  the  little  book,  but  beyond  Sunday,  June  16,  he 
saw  none  of  them.  That  day  he  was  killed  while  on  gas 
guard  duty. 



To  Lasser's  mother,  the  captain  of  his  company,  John 
E.  Langley,  wrote  on  June  18: 

All  of  us  have  to  die  at  some  time  and  when  our  time  comes : 
surely  a  soldier's  death  is  the  most  glorious  of  all,  and  your 
boy's  death  is  that  of  one  who  has  left  a  name  behind  him 
"whose  memory  is  as  sweet  honey  in  all  mouths"  for  he  died 
at  his  post  of  duty,  while  as  guard  to  protect  his  comrades. 

It  happened  on  Sunday,  June  16th,  in  the  early  morning. 
We  had  been  subjected  to  a  heavy  bombardment  by  the  Boche, 
and  Ralph,  who  was  a  member  of  the  gas  guard,  was  at  his 
post  keeping  watch  to  see  that  his  comrades  might  be  warned 
in  the  case  gas  came  over.  A  heavy  shell  burst  in  the  air  near 
his  station,  and  his  death,  which  was  instantaneous,  resulted 
from  the  shock,  so  that  there  was  no  suffering  whatever. 

Reverent  hands  closed  his  eyes,  and  his  casket  was  borne  to 
the  grave  draped  with  the  flag  he  loved  so  well  and  for  which 
he  died.  The  firing  squad  fired  the  last  volley,  and  taps  was 
blown.  He  has  been  buried  on  American  soil  even  though  it 
is  in  this  country,  and  the  grave  will  always  be  cared  for  care- 
fully, for  it  is  the  grave  of  a  hero  and  "E"  Company  will 
always  cherish  his  memory.  The  entire  company  joins  me  in 
expressing  to  you  our  sincere  sympathy. 

One  of  his  comrades,  writing  to  a  friend,  in  the  follow- 
ing month,  said  further : 

I  was  doubly  honored  in  being  picked  for  the  squad  firing  the 
salute  above  his  grave.  The  service  was  of  course  Jewish,  and 
I  could  not  help  but  feel  the  depth  and  seriousness  of  it,  and  I 
noticed  the  earnest  comradeship  in  the  faces  of  the  other  men 
at  the  grave  —  boys  of  all  nationalities  and  creeds,  but  all 
Americans  of  the  creed  of  Democracy  and  God. 

If  you  can  only  tell  this  to  his  mother,  I  am  sure  that  it  will 
serve  to  lessen  her  grief  and  make  her  very,  very  proud  of  her 
boy.    And  tell  her,  please,  that  one  of  his  own  company,  telling 



me  about  Ralph,  said,  "Lasser  sure  was  game,  for  he  stuck 
right  to  his  post  (he  was  a  gas  guard)  through  the  heaviest 
bombardment  ever  seen."  And  he  certainly  meant  every  word 
of  it. 

Thus  did  the  young  idealist  confront  the  reality  of  war, 
and  prove  himself  the  man  he  had  hoped  to  be. 



Class  of  1902 

JVlLajor  Cole,  of  the  United  States  Marine  Corps,  was 
one  of  the  few  Harvard  men  who  had  long  pursued  the  Hfe 
of  a  professional  soldier  when  their  country  entered  the 
war.  He  was  therefore  exceptionally  equipped  to  render 
valuable  service.  This  ended  with  his  death  in  valiant 
action  at  Belleau  Wood  in  the  effort  which  enabled  Presi- 



dent  Wilson  to  write:  "Thereafter  the  Germans  were  to 
be  always  forced  back,  back;  were  never  to  thrust  success- 
fully forward  again." 

Though  the  annals  of  the  Cole  family  relate  its  descent 
to  the  traditional  "Old  King  Cole"  of  England,  it  is 
enough  for  the  present  purpose  to  chronicle  the  fact  that 
Edward  Ball  Cole,  born  in  South  Boston,  Massachusetts, 
September  23,  1879,  was  a  descendant,  in  the  ninth  gen- 
eration, of  that  James  Cole  whose  name  is  perpetuated  in 
Cole's  Hill  at  Plymouth.  Charles  Henry  Cole  and  Mary 
(Lyon)  Cole  were  his  parents.  He  was  a  younger  brother 
of  Brigadier-General  Charles  H.  Cole,  of  the  26th  Division. 
As  a  boy  he  attended  a  private  school  in  Plymouth,  the 
Boston  Latin,  and  the  Hopkinson  Schools  in  Boston. 
From  the  last  of  these  he  entered  Harvard  with  the  Class 
of  1902.  There  he  remained  two  years,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  played  on  the  freshman  football  and  baseball 
teams,  and  joined  the  Institute  of  1770,  D.K.E.,  Phi  Delta 
Psi,  Fencing,  and  Owl  Clubs.  A  classmate,  at  both  school 
and  college,  has  written  of  him:  "Eddie  was  quarterback 
on  his  freshman  eleven  and  a  good  one,  winning  in  a  driv- 
ing rainstorm  from  Yale  at  New  Haven,  9-0.  He  was 
second  base  on  the  ball  team,  and  again  we  won.  He  was 
one  of  the  leaders  in  the  class  at  college,  jolly  and  care- 
free, always  ready  for  anything  that  turned  up,  especially 
if  it  was  anything  mischievous.  He  was  decidedly  popu- 
lar." Summing  up  his  memories,  this  classmate  writes: 
"A  good  companion,  a  good  friend,  and  a  good  soldier. 
What  more  can  a  fellow  be.^^" 

It  was  through  a  long  course  of  training  that  Cole  be- 
came the  good  soldier  he  was.    Leaving  college  in  1900,  he 



was  employed  for  a  portion  of  that  and  the  following  year 
in  mining  at  Coeur  d'Alene,  Idaho.    He  then  returned  to 
Boston  and  entered  the  brokerage  business.    In  the  spring 
of  1904  he  was  appointed  a  second  lieutenant  in  the  Marine 
Corps,  and  from  May  7,  1904,  to  February  11,  1905,  served 
at  the  Marine  Barracks,  Annapolis,  Maryland.    From  this 
time  forth  he  performed  the  duties  of  a  Marine  officer  both 
at  sea  and  in  many  shore  posts  in  the  United  States  and 
the  Philippines.     In  1914  he  served  in  Porto  Rico  and, 
twice,  in  Mexico.     He  was  promoted  to  first  lieutenant 
February  22,  1907;    to  captain  May  1,  1914;    to  major 
May  22,  1917.    For  several  years  before  the  war  he  made 
a  special  study  of  machine  guns,  on  which  he  wrote  and 
published  a  number  of  articles.    He  was  the  author,  also, 
of  a  field  book  for  machine  gunners,  and  invented  a  tripod 
for  machine  guns  and  a  portable  cart  with  pneumatic 
tires  and  wire  wheels  to  carry  the  Lewis  gun  and  ammuni- 
tion.    When  the  United  States  entered  the  war  he  was 
already  the  Marine  Corps  member  of  the  joint  Army, 
Navy,  and  Marine  Corps  Machine  Gun  Board.     In  this 
capacity  he  served  both  at  Marine  Corps  Headquarters 
in  Washington  and  on  special  temporary  duty  at  arsenals 
and  factories  where  machine  guns  were  made.     In  July, 
1917,  he  was  detached  from  Headquarters  and  joined  the 
Marine  Barracks  at    Quantico,   Virginia,  where  the   1st 
(later  renamed  the  6th)  Machine  Gun  Battalion  was  or- 
ganized, August  17,  1917,  with  Major  Cole  in  command. 
With  this  organization,  developed  to  a  high  state  of  effi- 
ciency under  his  leadership,  he  sailed,  December  8,  from 
Newport  News,  Virginia,  in  charge  of  all  the  troops  on  the 
U.  S.  S.  De  Kalh,  which,  after  stopping  at  New  York,  pro- 



ceeded  to  France.     His  command  remained  unchanged 
until  his  death  in  the  following  June. 

The  6th  Machine  Gun  Battalion,  a  unit  of  the  4th 
Brigade  (Marines)  and  of  the  2d  Division  of  Regulars, 
made  a  notable  record  from  its  arrival  in  France  until  after 
the  Armistice,  when  it  marched  into  Germany  with  the 
Army  of  Occupation.  Li  the  six  months  of  Major  Cole's 
command  of  it  in  Europe  it  was  stationed  first,  until 
March  15,  1918,  in  the  Bourmont  training  area;  then, 
until  May  14,  in  the  front  line  sector  with  the  other  ele- 
ments of  the  2d  Division,  to  the  south  of  Verdun;  and 
after  a  fortnight  of  open- warfare  training  was  ordered 
suddenly,  on  May  31,  to  quit  the  training  area  round 
Givors-Chaumont-en-Vexin  and  move  to  the  Chateau- 
Thierry  section  of  the  front  line.  While  it  was  in  the 
Bourmont  training  area,  the  Lewis  machine  gun  equip- 
ment of  the  Marines,  of  which  Major  Cole  had  made  so 
close  a  study,  was  superseded  by  other  apparatus.  It  was 
after  the  consequent  work  of  readjustment  was  accom- 
plished that  Major-General  Harbord  took  command  of  the 
Marine  Brigade  of  the  2d  Division.  Of  Cole  he  has  more 
recently  written  in  retrospect:  "He  had  made  a  pre-war 
study  of  machine  guns  and  was  in  the  front  rank  of  ex- 
perts in  the  use  of  that  arm,  knowing  the  details  of  their 
manufacture  from  actual  inspection  in  the  factories,  and 
being  familiar  with  the  principles  that  governed  their 
technical  use  in  war.  We  all  had  confidence  in  his  judg- 
ment and  deferred  to  him  as  an  authority  in  his  special 
arm."  From  this  statement  the  value  of  Major  Cole's 
services  both  in  the  training  of  his  men  and  in  leading  them 
in  battle  may  readily  be  inferred.    When  they  entered  the 



Verdun  sector  they  met  with  experiences  summed  up  in 
the  official  "History  of  the  Sixth  Machine  Gun  BattaHon" 
as  follows:  "During  the  period  of  service  in  the  front  line 
trenches  in  this  sector  the  companies  participated  in  re- 
pelling raids,  patrolling  No  Man's  Land,  repairing  barbed 
wire,  constructing  trenches  and  machine-gun  emplace- 
ments, indirect  fire,  barrage  fire,  and  harassing  fire." 
After  two  months  of  this  and  a  fortnight  of  special  train- 
ing for  open  warfare,  they  were  ready  for  the  first  of  their 
most  costly  and  rewarding  operations. 

On  June  2  the  companies  of  the  battalion  were  in  posi- 
tion. Early  the  next  morning  this  order  was  received: 
"The  French  troops  received  orders  to  retake  the  posi- 
tions they  have  just  lost.  The  American  troops  will  main- 
tain at  all  costs  the  line  of  support  they  occupy  —  Bois  de 
Clerembault,  Triangle,  Lucj^-le-Bocage,  Hill  142,  north 
corner  of  Bois  de  Veuilly.  They  will  not  participate  in  the 
counter-attack  which  will  be  made  to  retake  the  position 
of  the  French.  General  Harbord  directs  that  the  neces- 
sary steps  be  taken  to  hold  our  positions  at  all  costs." 
For  several  days  violent  attacks  were  successfully  resisted. 
Then  the  Marines  began  to  advance.  "On  June  10th," 
says  the  "History"  already  quoted,  "the  American  artil- 
lery laid  down  a  heavy  barrage  from  3.30  a.m.  to  4.30  a.m. 
on  Belleau  Wood,  preparing  the  way  for  the  attack  by  the 
1st  Battalion,  6th  Marines.  At  4.30  the  attack  went  for- 
ward supported  by  the  guns  of  the  77th  Company  and  six 
guns  from  the  23d  Company.  The  objective  was  gained 
and  all  guns  consolidated  the  position.  .  .  .  Four  guns 
from  the  23d  Company,  five  guns  from  the  77th  Company, 
and  two  guns  from  the  15th  Company,  went  forward  with 



the  infantry.  The  machine  guns  from  these  companies 
and  the  guns  under  Lieutenant  Hart  in  Bouresches  laid 
down  a  barrage,  for  half  an  hour  before  the  zero  hour  on 
Belleau  Wood,  thereafter  on  assembly  points  of  the  enemy. 
During  this  attack  Major  Edward  B.  Cole,  the  battalion 
commander,  fell  mortally  wounded." 

Before  going  into  such  a  fight  a  soldier  like  Major  Cole 
knew  well  what  might  befall  him  in  it,  and  wrote  thus  to 
his  wife: 

I  am  leaving  tonight  hurriedly  for  the  big  battle  and  expect 
to  be  in  it  before  many  hours.  Should  I  not  return,  sweetheart, 
remember  that  I  love  you  and  am  thinking  of  you  and  our  dear 
boys  and  mother.  You  have  been  a  dear  and  noble  wife  and 
mother,  and  I  am  leaving  my  dear  little  boys  in  the  best  possible 
hands.  In  after  years  they  will  comfort  and  take  care  of  you. 
Kiss  them  for  me  and  tell  them  that  I  consider  that  I  am  hon- 
ored in  being  able  to  offer  my  country  my  life.  God  bless  you 
and  them  and  keep  you  safe  from  all  harm. 

After  he  was  wounded  and  before  his  death  on  June  18, 
in  a  military  hospital  at  Coulommiers,  the  following  ac- 
count of  the  circumstances  was  written  from  France: 

On  June  10,  an  infantry  attack,  supported  by  machine  guns, 
had  been  ordered  to  clear  the  woods  of  the  enemy  and  his  ma- 
chine gun  nests.  Ned  was  in  command  of  the  machine  guns, 
and  moved  forward  from  his  regular  post  of  command  to  his 
battle  post  of  command.  His  adjutant  tried  to  dissuade  him 
from  moving,  telling  him  that  he  could  direct  his  machine  guns 
better  from  where  he  was  than  from  the  forward  position.  Ned 
replied  that  he  (the  Adjutant)  could  look  after  the  fire  of  the 
machine  guns  as  it  was  all  laid  out,  but  that  he  would  go  for- 
ward, and  that,  in  view  of  the  high  explosive  and  gas  shells  that 



were  landing  around  his  regular  post  of  command,  there  would 
be  no  more  danger  in  the  battle  post  of  command  than  where  he 

On  going  forward  he  found  seventy-five  or  one  hundred  men 
who  had  become  separated  from  their  officers,  and  who  were 
lost  and  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Taking  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance,  he  saw  an  opportunity  for  a  flank  attack  on  the  nest  of 
machine  guns  which  was  holding  up  the  frontal  attack. 

He  directed  the  men  he  had  collected  to  follow  him,  and  led 
them  in  a  flank  attack.  The  attack  was  a  surprise  to  the  enemy, 
and  he  and  his  men  had  nearly  reached  the  machine  gun  nests 
before  they  were  discovered.  It  was  then  too  late  for  the  enemy 
to  turn  their  machine  guns  on  the  attacking  party,  so  they  re- 
sorted to  hand  grenades. 

Ned  was  wounded  in  the  arm  and  in  the  leg  by  grenades  which 
he  did  not  see  when  another  one  was  thrown  at  him.  He  grabbed 
it  up  in  his  hand  to  throw  back  before  it  exploded  to  save  his  own 
men  from  the  danger  of  the  explosion,  but  it  went  off  while  his 
hand  was  raised.  The  fragments  went  through  both  arms,  both 
legs  at  the  thigh,  his  ankle  and  into  his  face.  His  right  hand  was 
shattered.  His  men  went  right  ahead  and  captured  the  machine 
gun  nests  and  thirty-five  guns.  Not  satisfied  with  this,  they 
kept  on  going  and  attacked  a  German  offensive  that  was  about 
to  start  and  broke  it  up,  chasing  the  enemy  out  of  their  positions. 

Ned,  left  alone,  started  to  crawl  back  under  rifle  fire.  He  got 
back  some  distance  when  he  was  picked  up  by  some  of  his  men 
and  carried  to  the  rear.  During  this  time  he  had  lost  a  great 
amount  of  blood,  and  with  the  shock  was  left  in  a  very  weakened 
condition,  so  weak,  in  fact,  that  they  did  not  dare  to  take  him 
further  than  the  first  operation  hospital. 

They  started  to  operate  on  him  the  night  of  June  10-11,  but 
had  to  stop  on  account  of  loss  of  blood.  He  was  given  two  saline 
solutions  to  try  to  save  him  and  finally  a  transfusion  of  blood 
from  one  of  the  members  of  the  Field  Hospital.  The  doctors 
gave  him  up  as  a  hopeless  case  with  no  expectation  that  he  would 



recover.  He  himself,  however,  never  gave  up,  and  his  grit 
carried  him  through  that  night,  June  11-12.  In  the  morning 
he  was  a  httle  better,  and  improved  a  Uttle  during  the  day.  I 
saw  him  that  night,  June  12.  He  was  irrational,  though  he  knew 
me.  I  saw  him  again  in  the  morning,  June  13.  His  mind  was 
normal,  but  he  was  utterly  exhausted.  He  improved  during  that 
day  and  the  next  night.  The  next  morning,  June  14,  the  doctors 
said  that,  barring  unforeseen  conditions  arising,  he  would  pull 
through  successfully. 

His  act  was  a  most  courageous  one,  and  was  highly  successful 
in  bringing  about  the  capture  of  the  machine  guns.  It  was  an 
act  that  he  was  not  called  upon  in  his  line  of  duty  to  perform, 
because  he  was  a  machine  gun  officer,  but  he  saw  the  oppor- 
tunity, realized  the  necessity  for  it,  and  took  upon  himself  the 
leading  of  this  attack.  His  whole  record  upon  the  front  has  been 
a  wonderful  one,  and  his  machine  guns  have  done  more  toward 
stopping  the  enemy  on  this  front  than  any  other  single  agency. 

When  his  brother,  General  Cole,  visited  him  in  the  hospi- 
tal, Major  Cole  begged  him  to  bring  oranges  and  cham- 
pagne to  the  other  wounded  men  about  him,  believing 
their  sufferings  to  be  worse  than  his  own.  In  this  and  in 
the  flowers  his  brother  brought  to  him  he  found  much 
happiness.  "I  have  been  thinking  of  flowers  all  day,"  he 
said,  pressing  them  to  his  face,  "and  now  I  have  them." 
He  spoke  continually  of  his  soldiers,  and  sent  his  wife  and 
children  the  message  that  if  the  Germans  were  defeated 
by  the  time  he  was  well  enough  to  walk  he  would  come 
straight  home;  if  not  he  would  insist  on  returning  to  the 
battle.  Only  an  hour  before  the  news  of  his  death  reached 
General  Harbord,  that  officer  received  from  Major  Cole 
the  message  that  he  would  soon  be  out  of  the  hospital  and 
fighting  again.     He  was  buried  in  the  American  military 



cemetery  at  Moiiroux,  with  permanent  burial  to  follow 
in  the  American  Belleau  Wood  Cemetery  at  Belleaii. 

It  is  a  familiar  fact  that  the  general  commanding  the  6th 
French  Army  issued  an  order  before  the  end  of  June,  1918, 
that  the  Bois  de  Belleau  should  henceforth  be  known 
officially  as  the  Bois  de  la  Brigade  de  Marines.  In  special 
honor  to  Major  Cole  the  United  States  Navy  gave  his 
surname  to  Torpedo  Destroyer  Number  155,  launched  in 
January,  1919.  In  July,  1918,  the  Distinguished  Service 
Cross  was  awarded  to  him  in  the  following  terms: 

In  the  Bois  de  Belleau,  on  June  10th,  1918,  displayed  ex- 
traordinary heroism  in  organizing  positions,  rallying  his  men 
and  disposing  of  his  guns,  continuing  to  expose  himself  fearlessly 
until  he  fell.  He  suffered  the  loss  of  his  right  hand  and  received 
wounds  in  upper  arm  and  both  thighs. 

His  memory  was  honored  also  by  the  award  of  the  Navy 
Cross,  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  with  palm,  and  the  order  of 
Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  Besides  these  official 
recognitions  there  are  such  words  as  those  of  Major-General 
John  A.  Lejeune,  Commandant  of  the  Marine  Corps,  de- 
scribing Major  Cole  who  served  under  him  in  the  Philip- 
pines, Mexico,  and  the  LTnited  States,  as  "one  who,  from 
his  entry  into  the  Marine  Corps  to  the  hour  he  fell  in 
battle,  over  fourteen  years,  faithfully  adhered  to  the 
principles  of  a  gentleman  and  officer  of  the  United  States, 
and  added  to  the  traditions  of  his  Corps.  Personal  con- 
duct and  character,"  General  Lejeune  went  on  to  write, 
"count  ever  for  most  in  those  who  would  faithfully  serve 
and  be  true  to  the  ideals  of  their  country,  and  Major  Cole 
stands  out  as  an  exemplary  possessor  of  those  virtues, 



which   are   the  requisites  of  a  real  American.  ...     As 
during  life  he  was  an  inspiring  example  to  all,  so  in  death 
—  a  soldier  death  on  the  battlefield  —  his  spirit  hovered 
over  his  comrades  urging  them  on  from  victory  to  victory." 
From  General  Harbord  comes  the  declaration  that  "it 
was  the  gallantry  of  men  like  Major  Cole  which  won  from 
the  French  High  Command  the  order  that  the  Bois  de 
Belleau  should  hereafter  forever  bear  the  new  name  of 
the  Bois  de  la  Brigade  de  Marines.     The  story  of  their 
valor  reads  like  a  romance  of  the  First  Empire,  and  has 
forever  immortalized  the  splendid  brigade  to  which  Major 
Cole  and  the  men  he  led  were  proud  to  belong.    Peace  to 
his  brave  soul,  and  may  the  story  of  his  death  for  his 
country  stir  the  sons  of  Harvard  as  long  as  men  honor  gal- 
lant deeds  and  manly  lives!" 

A  single  letter  remains  to  be  quoted.  It  was  written 
by  Major  T.  G.  Sterrett  of  the  Marines,  to  the  older  of 
Major  Cole's  two  sons:  "You  can  always  remember  your 
father  as  one  of  the  biggest  heroes  of  this  war.  He  gave 
up  his  life  gloriously  in  the  battle  that  turned  the  tide  and 
was  the  beginning  of  victory.  The  w^orld  is  grateful  for 
his  sacrifice,  which  has  meant  for  you  the  loss  of  your  dear 
father.  I  give  you  my  sincere  sympathy,  but  I  know  that 
you  and  your  brother  will  always  be  comforted  in  the 
knowledge  that  his  life  was  given  to  make  the  world  a 
safe  place  to  live  in." 



Class  of  1905 

Alvah  Crockek,  Jr.,  was  born  in  Fitchburg,  Massa- 
chusetts, April  3,  1882,  a  son  of  Alvah  Crocker  (Harvard, 
'79)  and  Charlotte  Trowbridge  (Bartow)  Crocker.  His 
brothers  are  Douglas  Crocker,  '10  and  John  Crocker,  '22. 
He  prepared  for  college  at  Groton  School,  entering  Har- 
vard in  1901,  There  he  played  on  his  freshman  football 
team,  was  a  substitute  on  the  Universitj^  team,  and  cap- 



tained  his  junior  class  team.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
D.  K.  E.,  Institute  of  1770,  Hasty  Pudding,  and  Delta 
Phi  Clubs.  After  completing  his  course  in  three  years, 
he  returned  to  receive  his  A.B.  with  his  class  in  1905. 

From  1905  until  the  spring  of  1909  he  worked  at  Fitch- 
burg  in  the  paper  mills  of  Crocker,  Burbank  &  Company, 
of  which  his  father  was  president.  While  thus  engaged 
in  learning  the  paper  business,  he  was  married,  October  19, 
1907,  to  Harriet  Greeley  of  Chicago,  a  sister  of  Samuel 
Arnold  Greeley  (Harvard,  '03).  Though  business  was 
not  congenial  to  his  tastes,  he  stuck  to  the  preparation  for 
it  through  manual  labor  until  he  was  offered  a  position  in 
his  father's  firm.  By  this  time  he  had  satisfied  himself 
that  he  could  never  be  happy  in  business,  and  deter- 
mined to  study  the  profession  of  architecture.  Accord- 
ingly, in  the  spring  of  1909,  he  went  to  France  to  begin 
his  studies.  From  the  beginning  he  exhibited  an  aptitude 
and  love  for  his  new  work  which  ensured  his  ultimate 
success.  In  June,  1911,  he  was  admitted  to  the  Ecole  des 
Beaux  Arts,  and  needed  but  three  more  points  for  his 
diplome  when  the  Ecole  was  closed  on  account  of  the  war 
with  Germany. 

Crocker  and  his  wife  immediately  entered  upon  the 
work  organized  for  the  help  and  relief  of  their  French 
colleagues  by  the  American  students  of  the  Beaux  Arts 
{Comite  des  Etudiants  Americains  de  V Ecole  des  Beaux 
Arts).  Besides  giving  aid  to  the  families  of  Beaux  Arts 
men  at  the  front,  this  committee  rendered  great  service 
by  keeping  these  men  in  touch  with  their  families  when 
the  German  invasion  drove  them  from  their  homes.  Later 
on  a  "Gazette"  was  published  monthly  and  sent  to  each 



man  at  the  front,  giving  news  of  his  fellow-students,  and 
serving  as  a  valuable  aid  to  morale. 

When  the  United  States  entered  the  war,  Crocker  im- 
mediately sought  an  opportunity  for  service  —  a  matter 
none  too  easy  to  accomplish  in  France.  On  July  13,  1917, 
he  became  a  civil  employee  on  duty  with  the  Engineers 
attached  to  the  First  Division.  On  October  6,  1917,  he 
returned  to  Paris,  where  he  remained  until  November  20, 
1917.  On  that  date  he  was  commissioned  second  lieu- 
tenant. Engineers  Reserve  Corps,  and  ordered  to  Brest, 
where  he  took  an  important  part  in  the  colossal  task  of 
building  that  great  port  and  base  —  a  feat  in  construction 
remarkable  both  from  the  magnitude  of  the  project  and 
from  the  speed  with  which  it  was  accomplished  in  the  face 
of  seemingly  insurmountable  obstacles. 

A  few  passages  from  Crocker's  letters,  both  as  a  civil 
employee  with  the  Engineers  of  the  First  Division  and  as 
an  officer  at  Brest,  will  serve  to  suggest  equally  the  nature 
of  the  work  he  performed  and  the  manner  of  man  he  was. 


July  U,  1917. 

I  've  been  getting  acquainted  some,  believe  me,  not  with  one 
but  with  many  persons  and  finding  out  how  to  be  useful.  There 
is  much  long-winded  patience  needed  and  a  fair  amount  of 

We've  been  sitting  around  a  table  before  a  provincial  hotel, 
watching  khaki  uniforms  and  chasseurs  uniforms  go  back  and 
forth.  I  'm  hungry  and  tired,  out  of  doors  the  whole  time.  The 
major  is  a  good  man  in  his  line.  I  wish  they  could  say  as  much 
of  me.  I  worked  till  late  on  water  questions  —  wells,  springs 
and  sanitation.  I  go  at  it  again  soon.  There's  plenty  to  do 
and  not  half  enough  done,  and  little  Willie  is  damn  near  dead. 



July  15,  1917. 

I've  got  a  real  job,  without  my  galons,  to  be  sure,  but 
I've  got  here  in  time  to  be  useful  and  before  our  American 
Engineers  Regiment.  So  when  they  come  I'll  be  as  useful 
knowing  the  ropes  as  any  of  their  lieutenants.  My  good  old 
boss  leaves  tomorrow.  He  sure  is  a  peach  or  I  fail  in  judging 
human  nature,  which  Monsieur  Thiers,  the  historian,  says  is 
the  basis  of  law. 

Meanwhile  I  work  and  feel  fit. 

July  17, 1917. 

Today  I  interpreted  between  three  aiimoniers,  two  priests  and 
a  pastevr  —  (1)  Mr.  Armstrong  from  Chicago,  the  Episcopal 
minister  from  your  country-side;  (2)  A  snappy  young  chasseur 
Pasteur,  French  Protestant;  (3)  A  Roman  Catholic  priest,  in 
almost  the  same  garb!  They  were  trying  to  get  together,  and 
Mr.  Armstrong  suggested  they  combine  forces  in  the  chapel 
now  being  knocked  up.  I  hope  they  do  forget  differences  of 
theology  and  get  to  business.  They  are  all  three  right  and 
stand  for  character.  Then  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretary  wanted 
me  to  apply  for  club  barracks.  I  hope  to  obtain  them.  I'm 
being  given  an  object  lesson  by  the  finest  trio  of  French  engi- 
neers in  one  branch  of  work  I  ever  knew.  They  are  so  capable 
and  patient.  I'm  aghast  at  their  efficient  methods.  Our  men 
are  splendidly  organized  too.  The  difference  in  French  and 
American  temperament,  different  ways  of  doing  the  same  kind 
of  work,  is  most  interesting.  Our  men  grind  things  out;  theirs 
take  things  differently  under  different  circumstances. 

July  20, 1917. 
I  am  dead  tired  and  have  a  hard  day's  work  (not  bad  fun) 
ahead  of  me  tomorrow.  It  is  a  shame  I  cannot  get  in  touch 
with  the  boss  as  it  seems  to  take  ages  to  get  anything  moving 
and  there  is  such  quantities  of  interpreting  to  do  and  so  few 
interpreters.  I  think  it  is  a  good  thing  in  the  long  run  as  the  men 
will  learn  French  that  much  quicker.  It  is  funny  to  be  here. 
I  like  it  and  yet  I'm  not  clever  enough  to  please  everybody. 



July  25,  1917. 
I  have  a  large  report  to  put  in  today  and  so  I  cannot  write 
at  length.  I  have  gotten  aw-fully  fatigued  during  the  time  since 
I  got  here  moving  around  between  the  various  departments  in 
both  American  and  French  authorities  for  every  nail  or  plank 
or  hammer  that  I  had  to  have.  Having  no  workman  yet  I  am 
doing  both  the  work  of  design,  executive  and  messenger  serv- 
ice to  the  various  heads  without  even  a  bike  and  I  have  to 
walk  from  one  town  to  another.  I  do  not  faire  la  bile,  but 
yesterday  I  was  sorely  tried,  not  being  able  to  get  documents, 
but  which  I  have  obtained  since. 

August  6, 1917. 

The  French  General  here  got  off  some  hot  air  about  my 
French,  intending  a  compliment.  He  said  that  there  was  only 
one  foreigner  he  knew  could  talk  French  as  free  from  accent  as 
yours  truly  (Guess  —  you  never  will!)  Le  Tzar  de  la  Russie! 
The  boys  here  say  he  wanted  me  to  know  he  knew  the  Czar. 

Aitgust  10, 1917. 

Again  I  am  left  as  sole  survivor  with  this  division  and  hope 

I  get  something  done  while  Major is  in  Paris.    He  is  fine, 

though  he  makes  no  allusions  to  a  commission  for  me.  Tant 
mieuxl    I  do  not  in  the  least  mind,  although  I  am  continually 

impeded  in  my  work  not  having  galons.    Major admits 

now  that  I  have  been  up  against  unusual  odds  and,  although  no 
word  has  slipped  by,  all  blame  at  least  has  escaped  my  shoulders. 

I  am  far  from  giving  up,  or  in  or  out,  but  turn  up  smiling  in 
the  morning  and  putt,  putt  up  and  down  this  camp  where  our 
boys  are  getting  the  training  that  we  all  hope  will  make  good 
soldiers  out  of  good  material.  Meanwhile  it  would  seem  to  me 
that  much  real  energy  is  wasted  by  the  bushel  that  might  be 
avoided.  However,  energy,  like  expanding  our  muscle,  re- 
news itself  by  use  and  although  misdirected  forms  a  reservoir 
of  more  energy  which  may  become  directed  after  training  and 
experience  has  proved  the  value  of  knowledge. 

The  French  may  have  faults,  but  we  have  inexperience,  and 



when  they  act  it  is  to  the  point  and  our  intelHgent  men  under- 
stand that  quahty  better  every  day.  It  is  interesting  to  see 
the  difference  in  the  national  characteristics  at  work  in  the 
army  after  seeing  the  difference  in  the  atelier.  And  with  the 
training  I  feel  sure  that  by  degrees  we  will  pull  together  with 
the  French  through  our  innate  sense  of  pride  to  be  brave,  in- 
telligent, and  energetic.  We  are  like  an  uncut  stone  —  still 
full  of  rough  edges.  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  had  had  the  experi- 
ence of  interpreting  for  General  de  Castelnau.  He's  a  big, 
strong,  simple  person  with  extraordinary  sensibility  and  handled 
a  delicate  situation  with  tact  and  strength  and  almost  with 
humor.  There  is  one  quality  which  we  seem  to  lack  and  that 
is  this  —  all  our  efficiency,  energy,  and  singleness  of  purpose 
in  most  cases  lacks  the  saving  grace  of  humor.  Our  humor 
when  it  shows  itself  is  tinged  with  the  smart  element  of  "Am 
I  not  clever!"  Yes,  clever,  my  boy,  but  not  humorous.  It  is 
too  soon  to  look  for  humor,  and  yet  why  not?  If  we  had  just 
one  little  bit  more  humor  it  would  be  with  such  lightness  of 
touch  that  we'd  be  learning  war.  The  hand  of  steel  need  be 
none  the  less  strong  beneath,  and  so  much  less  difficult  would 
each  day  be.  But  no  —  press,  press,  press.  Try  to  do  what  is 
just  around  the  corner,  nor  take  time  to  enjoy  what  you  are 
doing  right  now.  Restless  inanity  and  missing  out  in  true 
efficiency.  Ye  gods  —  nay  rather  may  God  Himself  shower 
the  earth  and  smile  on  sunny  days  —  or  in  warm  hearts,  this 
His  most  blessed  of  saving  graces!  Humor,  all- comprehending, 
cries  out  to  deaf  American  ears.  Rare  as  a  day  in  June,  or  a 
day  in  peace-time. 

September  3,  1917. 

I  fear  my  prognostications  are  true  and  that  we  are  very 
thorough  on  the  whole,  but  utterly  lacking  in  certain  humorous 
phases  which  give  life  the  charm  it  might  possess  even  in  war- 
time —  although  it's  a  dirty  business  and  I  wish  it  were  over. 

There  is  a  great  esprit  de  corps  among  the  men  from  north 
and  south,  east  and  west.    Would  that  hecatombs  were  not  the 



sure  fate  towards  which  we  were  working!  Madness  —  madness. 
If  I  knew  some  other  way  but  this  warHke  method  —  and  I 
secretly  revile  myself  for  not  having  discovered  one  —  me- 
thinks  Our  Lord  might  have !  He  was  of  a  different  race,  and  a 
race  far  more  intellectually  sensible  to  the  meaning  of  humility 

than  we  are. 

September  9,1917. 

.  .  .  Forgive  a  letter  written  by  a  man  whose  brain  is  con- 
fused with  excessive  application  to  R.  R.  forms  and  numbers 
a  mile  long.  —  As  Major  Graves  said  when  I  told  him  I  did  n't 
want  my  kid  brother  to  get  ahead  of  me  —  "Well,  he  could  n't 
get  a  commission  in  the  Engineer  Corps."    Cock-a-doodle-doo! 

I  have  n't  got  it  yet. 

September  12, 1917. 

I  desire  to  make  use  of  my  years  of  experience  to  help  put 
a  drop  into  the  bucket  for  freedom.  Although  I  feel  that  victory 
would  help  to  establish  an  immortal  world  democracy,  yet  I 
am  sanguine  of  good  results  only  in  so  far  as  I  see  the  suffering 
develop  men's  hearts  and  unselfishness.  This  is  by  way  of 
explaining  that  if  I  do  not  climb  the  ladder,  it  is  to  be  of  use 

and  very  humbly. 

September  22,  1917. 

I  look  upon  the  war  as  merely  an  incident  even  if  it  prove  to 
be  the  closing  incident,  though  I  hope  it  be  only  one  more 
experience.  .  .  . 

My  appointment  is  so  long  in  coming  that  I  begin  to  doubt  if 

I'll  get  a  lieutenancy.     Tant  pis!    If  it  does  n't  come  through, 

I  regret  that  my  sphere  of  usefulness  will  be  the  more  limited, 

that's  all.    I'm  sure,  however,  that  some  day  I'll  get  some  sort 

of  a  job,  and  I  'm  sure  that  my  appointment  damn  near  went 


September  29,1917. 

It's  blessed  to  be  neither  dead,  prisoner,  nor  estropie,  and  to 
live  in  the  hope  of  seeing  you  soon  again.  I  wish  we  had  regular 
intervals  which  we  might  count  on  as  the  French  do  for  return- 
ing to  the  bosom  of  our  families.    Perhaps  some  day  we'll  have 



regular  permissions  like  the  French.  If  not,  it  will  continue  to 
be  the  hardest  thing  we  do  to  fight  the  longing,  the  dull  ache, 
for  our  beloved  ones. 

[Through  all  these  weeks  Crocker  was  ardently  hoping 
for  the  commission  to  which  he  had  been  recommended, 
in  the  following  terms,  by  a  captain  of  engineers:  "Mr. 
Crocker  has  been  working  with  me  on  construction  and 
repair  work  in  the  First  Division  area  and  has  been  of 
great  assistance  by  reason  of  his  clear  knowledge  of  the 
French  language  and  people."  At  length  the  commission 
came.    The  remaining  letters  were  written  from  Brest.] 

November  21, 1917. 

Have  some  type  in  my  companion,  who's  a  fine  chap.  Saw 
and  reported  to  a  colonel  for  whom  I've  already  done  work. 
He  remembered  me  and  was  cordial.  Says  we're  up  against 
another  tough  proposition  —  someone 's  got  to  do  it,  so  if  we 
fail  we'll  be  replaced.  Hence,  we're  going  to  leave  no  stone 
unturned.  Air  here  is  fine  salt  air.  Sunny  for  three  hours  after 
our  arrival  —  weather's  our  least  worry.  It's  like  having  a  big 
horse  to  ride  —  whether  one  can  jump  on  or  not  is  the  only 
question  —  once  on  there's  no  doubt  of  being  taken  over  fences, 
but  precious  small  chance  of  being  able  to  get  on  his  back! 
Another  such  as  was  mine  in  July. 

November  28, 1917. 

Things  are  beginning  to  look  less  desperate  here.  However, 
we've  not  done  as  much  as  we  hoped  to  in  a  week.  I'm  kept 
hard  at  work  and  so  is  everyone.  Oh  this  cruel  war  —  such 
waste  of  material  and  life,  and  I  was  going  to  say  time  —  but 
time  seems  to  count  for  little  these  days. 

November  29,  1917. 
Today  .  .  .  has  been  a  good  example  of  a  hard  day.    Got  to 
work  immediately  after  breakfast,  a  ten-minute  walk  from  the 



hotel  down  by  the  old  castle.  Did  some  interviewing  and  trot- 
ting around,  and  all  the  time  find  French  indispensable.  We 
came  back  to  the  hotel  for  lunch  and  returned  at  once  —  stop- 
ping for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  cigar  at  a  cafe  on  the  way  back  — 
no  real  loaf  —  just  a  stop  for  ten  minutes  and  then  push  on. 
The  hardest  thing  is  doing  work  and  obtaining  what  you  think 
is  a  definite  thing  to  go  on  —  and  find  that  you  have  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  work  to  enforce  the  well-meaning  intention  into 
action.  You  know  these  dear  happy-go-lucky  people  as  well  as 
I  do,  and  they  do  try  so  hard  and  get  so  far  and  have  to  be 
driven  tactfully  without  getting  their  goat,  and  behind  you  the 
fear  of  not  getting  enough  done.  Yes,  still  the  steed  is  to  be 
mounted  and  he  gets  bigger  every  day  and  the  chance  of  get- 
ting on  seems  near,  and  then  you  are  let  down  by  some  occur- 
rence or  circumstance  and  have  to  begin  again.  However,  we 
have  done  a  lot  and  it  does  n't  show  for  much  either,  and  yet 
we  have  every  hope  of  accomplishing  our  mission. 

December  6,  1917. 

We  are  accomplishing  much  more  than  we  did  upon  our 
arrival,  doing  everything  that  we  can  lay  our  hands  on!  How- 
ever, even  at  that  we  are  hampered  by  the  lost  effort  of  adjust- 
ment between  American  and  French  ways,  and  I  get  pretty 
tired  translating.  There  is  every  advantage  in  taking  a  large 
point  of  view  and  I  insist  upon  myself  to  come  up  to  the  mark 
in  this  matter.  But  you  know  how  hard  it  is  to  force  French 
people,  and  we've  about  given  up  trying  to  —  personally  I 

should  never  have  tried. 

December  12,  1917. 

I  have  just  had  my  first  experience  employing  German  pris- 
oners. There  was  a  boss,  a  German  architect,  and  four  men. 
We  had  to  give  them  a  small  tip  for  working  them  in  the  noon 
hour.  The  big  Prussian  architect  was  n't  a  bad  looking  fellow, 
and  they  did  my  job  loading  boards  and  unloading  the  same 
on  and  off  a  big  motor  truck. 

Today  was  a  full  one  —  suddenly  we  had  to  prepare  for  many, 


AL\  AH   CROCKER,  Jr. 

many  men  on  short  notice,  requiring  us  to  work  preparing 
quarters  for  them.  We  will  have  a  company  of  laborers  to  look 
after,  and  that  may  prevent  my  getting  off  for  Christmas! 
Don't  get  too  blue:  as  one  black  negro  said  today  —  "I  jest 
doan  write  as  it  done  gone  make  me  sad  and  sorrowful  to  think 
of  my  wife  grieving  for  me,  so  I  jest  doan  write  at  all,"  but  he 
added,  "guess  I'd  better  write  her  to  send  me  some  money  — 
say  boss,  when  do  you  think  dey's  gwine  to  pay  us  off?"  He 
said  his  wife  could  n't  write  him  because  she  did  n't  know  just 
what  part  of  the  States  he  was  in ! 

December  28, 1917. 
Perhaps  better  days  are  in  store  for  us  —  for  all  of  us  —  and 
the  poor  sufferers  who  have  nothing  much  to  live  for  —  suffer- 
ers because  of  the  war.  To  think  that  cupidity,  lust  for  power 
and  selfishness,  dressed  up  in  the  garb  of  a  so-called  civilization, 
should  bring  people  who  know  what  Christ  stood  for  to  each 
other's  throats!  However,  so  far  we  have  proved  inapt  to 
comprehend  the  true  meaning  of  our  Enfant  Jesus'  teachings  — 
so  now  we  must  fight,  leave  our  homes,  our  children,  on  Christ- 
mas evening,  and  follow  the  herding  of  the  Americans.  Let  us 
hope  our  national  help  may  pull  the  Allies  over  their  difficulties. 

December  31,  1917. 
This  base  hospital  is  Lieutenant  H's  favorite  job.  The  doc- 
tors are  hard  workers  and  they  have  lots  of  pep!  And  we  have 
been  getting  them  into  something  like  shape  —  electric  light- 
ing, water-pipes,  etc.  —  in  fact,  helping  them  to  help  themselves. 
The  nurses  are  overworked  —  about  40  for  300  beds  and  in- 
sufficient quarters  —  this  for  your  ears  only  —  poor  fellows  — 
the  sick  I  mean.  When  I  think  of  being  one  of  many  who  are 
suffering,  it  seems  as  though  no  one  was  better  than  the  worst 
of  human  sufferers.  When  one  reflects  on  the  seven-day  week 
of  the  hospital  workers,  my  job  is  nothing  like  that.  I  need  a 
dressing  down  and  I  '11  get  it  if  my  brain  does  n't  begin  to  act 
reasonably.  These  days  if  a  man  has  brains,  he  has  got  to  use 
them;   and  if  he  has  n't  many,  he's  got  to  use  the  ones  he  has. 



In  particular  we  have  to  face  the  fact  that  Germany  must  be 
trimmed  and  that  right  properly,  in  order  that  Bobs  and  Teddy, 
Nannan  and  Pink  Toes,  need  not  experience  a  war  like  this  one 
right  away  again.  Very  soon  now  this  job  will  be  accomplished. 
It  seems  that  any  course  that  will  take  me  into  Pioneer  work  in 
some  regiment  is  the  thing  for  me  to  do.  I  have  a  method  of 
procedure  mapped  out  which  will  get  me  there  by  the  time  the 
spring  offensives  are  on. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  this  is  going  to  be  a  busy  spring  —  in 
fact,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  another  February,  like  the 
Verdun  attack,  were  repeated.  But  if  I  am  going  to  get  into 
the  fighting  Pioneer  work,  my  entrance  into  a  school  at  Ver- 
sailles should  not  be  later  than  three  weeks  from  now.  It 
seems  brutal  to  tell  you  this.  I,  nevertheless,  am  of  the  opinion 
that  the  more  children  you  have,  the  more  you  want  to  fight 
for  their  protection  —  the  more  too  it 's  one's  duty  to  fight  for 
them,  although  all  of  the  sweetness  and  joy  of  innocence  seems 
to  go  out  of  the  world  with  the  madness  of  war.  Yet  to  lie  down 
and  be  trodden  on  without  pride  or  combativeness  is  mere 
complacency,  and  to  me  this  is  the  time!  .  .  .  But  I  had  rather 
be  killed  than  submit  to  much  of  the  ignominy,  immorality,  and 
selfishness  one  sees  —  almost  shares  in  —  in  our  heathen  civili- 
zation of  which  we  are  so  proud.  Perhaps  later  days  may  see 
Christianity  dawn  from  these  dark  ages  and  a  good  yeast  per- 
meate the  loaf.  Oh,  teach  the  Bible  to  those  kids  of  ours.  Let 
the  salt  get  into  them  and  tell  them  not  to  hide  their  light  under 
a  bushel.  For  the  end  of  all  is  sacrifice.  Why  not  start  by 
being  unselfish  and  raise  a  brood  who  can  pull  together  from 
New  York  to  San  Francisco,  helping  each  other  to  be  happy! 

What  does  not  appear  in  these  letters  is  that  Lieu- 
tenant Crocker's  command  of  the  French  language,  and 
his  experience  and  ability  in  dealing  with  the  French  gave 
to  his  service  a  peculiar  value.  It  is  perhaps  easier  to  read 
between  the  lines  that  the  work  at  Brest  was  a  heart- 



breaking  task  for  all  and  that  Crocker's  share  of  it  was 
taxing  his  strength  beyond  the  limits  of  his  endurance. 
Though  he  realized  fully  that  he  could  not  continue  to 
stand  the  strain  of  this  job  that  must  be  finished  at  top 
speed,  he  stuck  to  it  until  it  finally  broke  him  down  com- 
pletely and  resulted  in  his  death,  at  Brest,  on  June  25, 

Crocker  was  survived  by  his  wife,  two  daughters,  and 
two  sons.  He  received  a  posthumous  citation  "for  ex- 
ceptionally meritorious  and  conspicuous  services  at  Base 
Section,  Number  5,  France."  On  June  8,  1921,  the  diplovie 
of  the  Beaux  Arts  was  awarded  to  him.  A  poem  in  his 
memory,  by  his  friend  Arthur  Ketchum,  containing  many 
lines  of  beauty,  begins  with  these: 

No  tears  for  you 

O  Very  Dear,  and  true 

To  that  high  soul  in  you  that  would  not  let  you  rest 

Contented  with  the  half  achieved,  the  lower  best. 

But  stirring  at  the  summons  of  the  Word 

Of  your  unseen  Commander  forged  ahead 


And  keeping  step  to  rhythms  all  unheard 

By  duller  ears 

Followed  a  trail,  unguessed. 

O  Bugles,  on  the  last  redoubt 

Sing  triumph  out; 
A  new  adventurer  waits 

At  your  high  gates. 
Amid  the  pennons  and  the  flash  of  spears; 
O  Heavenly  Bugles,  sing 
His  welcoming! 
But  —  no  tears,  no  tears! 



Class  of  1918 

iliLLioT  Adams  Chapin,  as  his  name  suggests,  was  of 
pure  New  England  descent.  From  before  the  Revokition 
his  ancestors,  on  both  sides  of  his  family,  were  born  in  or 
near  Boston.  He  himself  was  born  in  Somerville,  Massa- 
chusetts, May  10,  1895,  a  son  of  Cyrus  Smith  Chapin,  of 
the  Chapin  and  Adams  Company,  a  Boston  commission 
firm,  and  Alice  (Bigelow)  Chapin.  His  mother's  father, 
George  E.  Bigelow,  was  killed  in  the  Civil  War,  at  the 
Battle  of  Fredericksburg;  her  grandfather.  Captain  John 
Bigelow,  was  a  soldier  in  the  War  of  the  Revolution.  His 
elder  brother  is  Robert  Bigelow  Chapin,  of  the  Harvard 
Class  of  1908. 

After  attending  the  grammar  and  high  schools  in  New- 



ton,  Massachusetts,  he  went  to  Phillips-Andover  Academy, 
graduating  with  the  Class  of  1914.  In  "PhilHps  Academy, 
Andover,  in  the  Great  War"  he  is  recorded  as  "still 
remembered  on  Andover  Hill  as  a  boy  of  unusual  personal 
charm.  LTnlike  most  of  those  who  spend  only  one  year 
at  Phillips  Academy,  he  made  a  host  of  warm  friends.  He 
played  for  some  weeks  on  the  football  squad  and  was 
elected  to  Phi  Delta  Sigma;  and  he  was  also  exceptionally 
popular  in  his  class  and  in  the  school  at  large." 

In  the  autumn  of  1914  he  entered  Harvard  College  with 
the  Class  of  1918.  Here,  in  his  freshman  year,  he  played 
on  the  Gore  Hall  football  team,  which  won  the  inter- 
dormitory  championship,  and  in  the  spring  of  1915,  was 
captain  of  the  Gore  Hall  baseball  team,  which,  also,  won 
the  interdormitory  championship.  In  the  autumn  of 
1916  he  was  elected  to  membership  in  the  Pi  Eta  Society, 
and  became  active  in  its  management.  Always  interested 
both  in  his  studies  and  in  athletics,  he  was  popular  with 
his  classmates,  and  had  more  than  an  ordinarily  wide 
acquaintance  in  college. 

Near  the  end  of  his  junior  year,  in  April,  1917,  he  en- 
listed in  the  United  States  Naval  Reserve  Force,  Coast 
Patrol,  a  minor  defect  in  one  eye  having  prevented  his 
admission  to  the  LT.  S.  Aviation  Service.  Feeling  that  in 
the  Coast  Patrol  he  was  doing  less  than  that  of  which  he 
was  capable,  and  still  eager  to  become  an  aviator,  he 
secured,  on  August  24,  1917,  an  honorable  discharge  from 
the  U.  S.  Naval  Reserve  Force,  effective  upon  his  enlist- 
ing in  the  British  Royal  Flying  Corps,  which  he  did  on 
August  26.  After  having  passed  a  satisfactory  physical 
examination,  he  reported  at  Toronto,  on  September  6. 



He  received  part  of  his  ground  and  flying  training  at  Long 
Branch,  and  Deseronto,  where  he  remained  until  No- 
vember 15,  when  he  was  sent,  with  three  hundred  other 
cadets,  to  Camp  Hicks,  Fort  Worth,  Texas,  for  further 
training.  There,  in  December,  he  received  his  commis- 
sion as  second  Keutenant  in  the  Royal  Flying  Corps. 

At  the  end  of  a  furlough  beginning  December  31,  1917, 
Chapin  sailed  from  Halifax,  January  27,  1918,  on  the 
Tunisian,  in  the  same  convoy  with  the  Tuscania,  tor- 
pedoed off  the  Irish  coast  on  this,  her  last  ill-fated  voyage. 
When  the  captain  of  the  Tunisian  called  for  an  "extra 
submarine  watch,"  Chapin  volunteered  and  afterwards 
wrote  his  family  that  "it  was  the  most  exciting  three 
hours  he  had  ever  spent."  The  Tunisian  docked  at  Liver- 
pool, February  6,  and  Chapin,  having  spent  a  few  days 
in  London,  was  sent  to  Salisbury,  where,  after  further 
intensive  training,  he  received  his  first  lieutenancy  in 
April,  seven  months  from  the  beginning  of  his  training. 

Early  in  May,  1918,  he  was  ordered  to  France,  and, 
together  with  his  observer,  flew  his  plane,  a  large  De 
Haviland  bomber,  over  the  Channel  and  across  France 
to  the  aerodrome  of  the  99th  Bombing  Squadron,  Royal 
Air  Force,  to  which  he  was  assigned.  Its  station  was  about 
six  miles  south  of  Nancy,  and  its  duties  were  to  harass 
the  enemy  by  bombing  his  lines  of  communication,  rail- 
ways, ammunition  dumps,  and  aerodromes. 

On  June  27  Chapin  was  detailed,  with  others,  to  bomb 
the  railwav  at  Thionville,  north  of  Metz.  On  the  sue- 
cessful  accomplishment  of  this  purpose,  the  formation 
was  attacked  by  a  large  number  of  Fokker  scouts.  Dur- 
ing a  desperate  fight,  a  shot  passed  through  the  petrol 



tank  of  Chapin's  plane,  causing  an  explosion,  which  sent 
the  plane  down  in  flames  from  1300  feet.  This  was  about 
two  miles  southeast  of  the  town  of  Thionville  and  twenty- 
five  miles  within  the  enemy's  lines.  Lieutenant  Walker, 
of  Chapin's  squadron,  flying  at  the  time  only  fifty  feet 
away,  bore  witness  to  the  scene:  "When  he  saw  death 
staring  him  in  the  face,  I  saw  him  turn  around  to  his  ob- 
server, reach  out  his  hand  and  shake  hands  with  him." 

Such  a  final  action  was  characteristic  of  one  of  whom 
it  could  also  be  written  by  a  fellow-officer  that  "he  was 
one  of  the  best:  he  always  had  a  smile  and  a  kind  word 
for  everyone";  and,  besides,  that  "we  all  loved  him. 
In  fact  he  was  the  finest  type  of  Christian  manhood  that 
could  possibly  be  found." 

At  the  Harvard  Commencement  of  1919  Chapin  re- 
ceived the  "war  degree"  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  as  of  the 
Class  of  1918. 



Class  of  1909 

ijTOODwiN  Warner  was  the  only  son  of  William  Pear- 
son Warner,  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1874,  a  member  of 
the  Boston  brokerage  firm  of  Parkinson  and  Burr,  and  of 
Hetty  (Rogers)  Warner,  who  died  in  1908.  He  was  born 
in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  January  17,  1887.  One  of 
his  three  younger  sisters  is  the  wife  of  Francis  A.  Harding, 
secretary  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1909. 

In  his  preparation  to  enter  this  class,  as  throughout  his 
life,  Warner  had  to  contend  with  the  handicap  of  severe 
chronic  asthma.  He  went  to  Harvard  from  Noble  and 
Greenough's  School  in  Boston,  but  had  previously  spent 
two  years  at  the  Thacher  School  in  California  and  two 
years  in  the  Maine  woods.     How  serious  his  physical 



handicap  was  few  of  his  closest  friends  realized,  since  his 
unfailing  cheerfulness  and  courage  concealed  the  suffer- 
ing to  which  he  was  subject.  Through  the  necessity  of 
living  much  outdoors,  he  was  enabled  to  cultivate  a  love 
of  nature,  especially  in  the  study  of  birds,  and  became  an 
expert  in  New  England  ornithology. 

On  graduating  from  college  in  1909  Warner  entered  the 
Boston  office  of  Stone  and  Webster,  but  left  it,  by  reason 
of  illness,  in  January,  1910.  A  trip  to  Bermuda  in  the 
spring  brought  him  to  the  decision  recorded  in  the  1915 
Report  of  his  class:  "No  more  office  for  me."  He  then 
began  to  investigate  the  possibilities  of  orcharding  in  New 
England,  studied  in  the  first  half  of  1911  at  the  Massa- 
chusetts Agricultural  College,  and  in  August  went  west 
for  several  months  to  look  into  the  opportunities  for  apple 
raising  in  Montana,  Washington,  and  Oregon,  with  the 
conclusion  that  the  "only  people  who  made  money  were 
those  who  sold  to  Easterners  like  me."  What  ensued  is 
told  in  his  contribution  to  the  1909  Decennial  Class 

In  November  the  College  Office  offered  me  a  chance  to  go 
on  a  trip  as  companion  to  a  convalescing  1912  man.  Went  to 
Memphis,  Tennessee,  on  December  1.  Bought  a  42-foot  cabin 
cruiser  there,  got  two  young  fellows  for  cook  and  engineer,  and 
went  down  the  Mississippi  River  to  New  Orleans.  Picked  up 
another  man  and  dog  in  Arkansas.  Tied  up  to  the  banks  where- 
ever  we  wished  and  got  some  good  hunting.  Not  knowing  river, 
had  some  close  calls  but  made  it  O.  K.  Returned  to  Boston 
in  February,  1912.  Spent  spring  looking  for  a  farm,  and  in 
August  bought  160  acre  farm  in  Littleton,  Massachusetts. 
Have  been  farming  it  hard  since  then,  and  am  specializing  in 



Warner  was  making  a  success  of  this  work  when  the 
United  States  entered  the  war.  Impatient  to  take  his 
part  in  it,  he  sailed  for  France,  and  on  June  2,  1917,  joined 
the  American  Field  Service.  It  was  a  time  at  which  this 
organization  was  rendering  a  service  of  peculiar  value  to 
the  French  Army,  through  meeting  a  demand  for  a  large 
number  of  camion  drivers,  whom  it  sent  to  the  Reserve 
Mallet,  a  branch  of  the  Motor  Transport  service,  which 
is  said  to  have  carried  to  the  front  more  ammunition  than 
the  whole  American  Army  used  in  the  war.  To  the  ardu- 
ous and  dangerous  work  of  this  service  Warner  was  im- 
mediately assigned  as  a  member  of  Transport  Materiel  184, 
operating  at  Jouaignes,  Aisne,  not  far  from  the  Chemin 
des  Dames.  Here  he  became  Sous-Chef  of  his  section,  and, 
after  graduating  in  October  from  the  French  Automobile 
Officers'  School  at  Meaux,  was  appointed  Commandant 
Adjoint,  r.  J/.  133.  At  about  the  same  time,  when  the 
American  Army  was  taking  over  the  control  of  the  Reserve 
Mallet,  Warner  enlisted  as  a  private,  and  on  December 
18,  1917,  was  commissioned  second  lieutenant,  Quarter- 
master Corps,  U.  S.  Army.  On  that  day  he  became  com- 
manding officer  of  Motor  Transport  Company  360,  and 
for  the  remaining  months  of  his  life,  contending  con- 
stantly with  the  disability  of  imperfect  health,  pursued 
his  work  with  an  energy  and  effectiveness  which  won  him 
highest  praise.  "In  June,  1918,"  to  quote  from  the  Tenth 
Anniversary  Report  of  his  Class,  "after  returning  from 
a  long  tour  of  exacting  duty,  during  an  epidemic  of  influ- 
enza, which  greatly  reduced  the  strength  of  his  group,  his 
command  was  again  called  out  on  convoy  duty.  Although 
beginning  himself  to  feel  the  effects  of  the  disease,  he 



remained  with  his  command  against  the  protests  of  many, 
was  out  two  nights  and  a  day  and  shortly  afterwards 
developed  a  severe  case  of  jineumonia,  from  which  he  died 
at  Camp  Hospital  No.  4  [Joinville-le-Pont]  on  June  29." 
During  his  illness,  and  after  it  was  too  late  for  him  to 
learn  the  fact,  he  was  promoted  to  the  command  of  two 
hundred  fifty  men  and  about  a  hundred  camions.  When 
he  was  buried  with  military  honors,  at  Suresnes,  Com- 
mandant Mallet,  under  whom  he  had  served  since  coming 
to  France,  said  of  him: 

His  fellow-officers  cannot  speak  too  highly  of  him  as  a  good 
and  trusty  friend;  his  men  have  always  known  him  as  a  kind 
and  reliable  leader.  As  for  myself,  it  is  my  desire  to  acknowl- 
edge before  you  all  the  deep  debt  of  gratitude  the  French  Army 
owes  to  Lieutenant  Warner,  who  came  to  serve  our  country 
before  his  own  needed  him,  and  so  he  has  ever  since  been  per- 
forming his  military  duties  with  such  devotion  and  efficiency. 
In  the  name  of  the  Director  of  the  French  Automobile  Service, 
in  the  name  of  my  Reserve,  I  wish  him  a  last  farewell,  and  ad- 
dress the  expression  of  our  deep  sympathy  to  his  family  and  to 
those  who  are  mourning  today  an  affectionate  friend,  a  promis- 
ing officer,  and  a  perfect  gentleman. 



Class  of  1916 

In  the  death  of  this  uncommonly  skillful  and  daring 
aviator  at  Dallas,  Texas,  on  July  4,  1918,  the  American 
Army  lost  one  of  the  flyers  from  whom  most  might  have 
been  expected  had  he  lived  to  reach  the  front.  "If  ever 
a  man  were  ripe  for  overseas  work,"  he  wrote  less  than  a 
month  before  his  death,  "it  is  I.  If  I  were  a  horse  I  would 
paw  the  ground."     The  frientl  with  whom  his  relations 



were  closest  during  this  final  month  of  his  life  has  de- 
clared that  his  eagerness  for  the  front  so  preyed  upon  him 
as  to  increase  the  recklessness  of  his  flying.  Near  the 
end  of  June  he  said  to  this  friend,  while  they  were  lying 
awake  in  the  heat  of  a  Texas  night,  "I'm  going  to  be 
killed  in  the  next  month."  In  less  than  a  week  the  fore- 
boding, all  uncharacteristic  of  one  so  filled  with  happiness 
and  hope,  was  realized. 

This  son  of  Frederic  Percival  Clement,  of  New  York 
City  and  Rutland,  Vermont,  who  graduated  at  Harvard 
with  the  Class  of  1888,  and  of  Maud  (Morrison)  Clement, 
was  born  at  Elizabeth,  New  Jersey,  March  20,  1895.  His 
father's  family,  descended  from  Robert  Clement,  who 
came  from  England  to  Salisbury,  Massachusetts,  in  1642, 
has  been  conspicuously  identified  since  1809  with  the 
state  of  Vermont.  Through  both  his  father  and  his 
mother  he  traced  his  ancestry  to  Pilgrims  of  the  May- 
floiver's  company.  In  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  cen- 
turies his  forebears  rendered  honorable  service  in  the 
Revolutionary  and  Civil  Wars. 

The  friends  of  his  earliest  years  noted  the  keenness  of 
his  mind  and  the  strain  of  unselfishness  in  his  character 
which  endeared  him  to  young  and  old.  In  those  years 
also  he  manifested  a  strong  love  of  nature  and  all  out- 
door pursuits.  Among  them  was  a  fondness  for  heights  — 
he  was  a  venturesome  climber  —  and  for  free  spaces.  It 
almost  seemed  that  he  was  destined  to  fly. 

Through  a  part  of  his  boyhood  his  family  lived  at 
Watertown,  New  York,  where  he  attended  the  public 
schools  until  he  entered  the  Morristown  School,  Morris- 
town,  New  Jersey,  then  recently  established  by  three  of 



his  father's  classmates  and  friends.  In  each  of  his  three 
years  at  Morristown  he  won  the  highest  general  scholar- 
ship prize  and  more  prizes  for  scholarship  in  separate 
studies  —  Greek,  Latin,  French,  History,  and  English  — 
than  any  other  boy  in  the  school.  He  was  also  a  member 
of  the  football  and  track  teams,  took  an  important  part 
in  the  school  plays,  and  in  many  other  activities  of  the 
school.  Entering  Harvard  with  the  Class  of  1916,  he 
held  a  corresponding  place  in  the  undergraduate  life  of 
his  time.  Throughout  his  course  he  served  on  important 
committees  of  his  class,  of  which  he  was  secretary- 
treasurer  in  his  junior  year;  from  the  assistant  manager- 
ship of  the  freshman  track  team  he  passed  to  the  position 
of  manager  of  the  L^niversity  track  team;  in  his  senior 
year  he  was  a  member  of  the  Student  Council.  He  did 
his  part  in  the  Harvard  Regiment,  and  joined  the  St. 
Paul's  Society,  the  Institute  of  1770,  D.  K.  E.,  the  Re- 
publican, Morristown  School,  Varsity,  Stylus,  Signet, 
Hasty  Pudding,  O.  K.,  and  Delphic  Clubs.  The  friend 
who  has  already  been  quoted,  Lieutenant  Rex  P.  Arthur, 
did  not  meet  him  until  they  had  both  entered  the  avia- 
tion service,  but  his  characterization  of  Clement  shows 
clearly  what  he  must  have  been  in  college: 

I  soon  learned  that  Freddy  was  of  a  very  nervous,  eager 
temper;  extremely  engaging  in  manner  and  impulsively 
friendly  —  apparently  impulsive  in  everything,  but  this  was 
pure  appearance,  as  in  reality  all  his  actions  were  directed  by 
principles  based  on  the  finest  character  I  have  ever  known. 
This  was  the  astonishing  thing  about  him.  He  had  an  extra- 
ordinary Puritan  conscience.  I  say  "extraordinary."  I  found  in 
college,  and  especially  during  the  war,  that  such  a  conscience, 
especially  in  a  boy,  was  extraordinary.     Freddy  was  the  only 



boy  I  ever  knew  who  was  absolutely  good  and  at  the  same  time 
wonderfully  popular.  .  .  .  When  I  think  of  his  character,  I 
always  think  of  a  steel  lance. 

In  the  autumn  after  graduating  from  college,  Clement 
entered  the  Harvard  Law  School,  but,  instead  of  living 
in  Cambridge,  became  a  member  of  the  household  of 
Robert  H.  Hallowell  (Harvard,  '96)  at  Readville,  Massa- 
chusetts. Of  the  influence  he  exerted  there,  Mr.  Hallowell 
wrote  to  Clement's  father:  "What  a  joy  and  satisfaction 
it  is  to  have  Fred  one  of  our  household!  I  do  not  know 
how  we  ever  got  along  without  him.  But  O!  how  you 
must  miss  him!  I  have  rarely  seen  so  lovely  a  character; 
always  cheerful  and  happy,  with  the  rare  gift  of  impart- 
ing his  cheerfulness  to  others,  and  so  straightforward  and 
just  plain  honest  that  you  feel  certain  he  never  could  do 
or  think  a  mean  thing."  After  Clement's  death  the  same 
good  friend  wrote  again:  "You  talked  to  me  a  moment 
about  the  bringing  up  of  boys.  If  I  could  only  bring  up 
mine  to  be  like  Fred,  I  would  feel  that  one  of  the  greatest 
missions  of  my  life  had  been  fulfilled.  In  my  own  mind 
I  had  planned  that  Fred  was  the  one  to  whom  I  could 
point  as  an  ideal  for  my  boys  to  follow,  and  I  had  more 
often  thought  how  he  would  help  them  to  avoid  the  pit- 
falls that  are  invariably  encountered  by  youth." 

For  such  a  young  man  as  Clement  the  only  question 
of  his  relation  to  the  war  was  that  of  how  and  when.  On 
April  27,  1917,  he  answered  it  thus,  in  a  letter  to  his 
parents : 

As  I  wrote  you  a  long  time  since  — - 1  would  go  when  the  call 
came.    I  have  now  gone. 



I  have  thought  it  over  carefully  and  have  determined  the 
right  thing  to  do  was  for  me  to  apply  for  Plattsburg.  I  passed 
the  physical  exam  and  the  required  mental  tests  Thursday 
morning  when  I  filed  my  application.  Today  I  heard  from  the 
War  Department  that  I  had  been  recommended  for  Plattsburg. 
The  notifications  and  "marching  orders"  will  come  any  time. 
.  .  .  The  camp  lasts  three  months  and  it  is  supposed  we  shall 
then  be  fit  to  train  the  first  500,000,  and  then  .   .   .  ? 

Please  write  and  say  you  are  glad  I  have  done  this  or  that  you 
approve.  Although  I  am  sure  you  do,  it  would  be  nice  to  see 
your  letter  saying  so. 

Don't  be  worried  as  to  what  might  happen.  It  will  be  six 
or  eight  months  before  there  is  a  chance  to  cross  and  by  that  time 
the  war  may  be  over. 

Clement  went  to  Plattsburg  in  May,  and  in  June  secured 
a  transfer  to  the  aviation  service.  One  of  the  friends  he 
made  at  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technology 
Ground  School,  where  he  enlisted,  June  18,  as  a  private, 
first  class.  Aviation  Section,  Signal  Corps,  reports  that 
Clement  gave  as  the  reason  for  this  transfer  his  feeling 
that  his  youthful  appearance  would  make  it  difficult  for 
him  to  convince  the  officers  at  Plattsburg  that  he  was  of 
serious  age,  but  that  the  real  reason,  in  this  friend's 
opinion,  was  the  spirit  of  adventure  moving  within  him. 
On  July  20  he  was  detailed  to  Mineola,  Long  Island, 
where  he  qualified,  September  1,  as  reserve  military 
aviator.  His  next  detail  was  to  Kelly  Field,  Texas,  where 
on  October  5  he  received  his  commission  as  first  lieutenant. 
Aviation  Section.  On  October  26  he  was  detailed  to  Fort 
Sill,  Oklahoma,  as  an  instructor;  in  February,  1918,  to 
Camp  Dick,  Texas;  and  on  April  1  to  the  School  of  Aerial 
Gunner V,  at  Taliaferro  Field,  Texas.    He  was  still  at  this 



post  when  he  met  first  with  a  minor  accident  and  then 
with  his  death. 

In  all  these  stations  Clement's  charm  of  personality 
won  him  a  multitude  of  friends.  At  the  same  time  he 
was  making  a  reputation  as  an  aviator  in  which  some 
anxiety  on  the  part  of  his  superiors  was  inevitably  mingled 
with  admiration.  This  appears  in  one  of  Clement's  own 
letters  from  Taliaferro  Field  (May  12,  1918)  from  which 
the  words  revealing  his  impatience  to  reach  the  front  have 
already  been  quoted: 

I  also  find  I  have  flown  over  300  hours,  which  is  quite  a  num- 
ber. They  often  send  one  over  the  lines  with  60.  I  can't  seem 
to  think  of  anything  but  practising  for  overseas.  Friday  I  was 
right  on  my  toes  and  went  up  in  one  of  the  new  planes  with  a 
man  in  the  front  seat  to  work  the  camera  gun  on  the  top  plane. 
I  pretended  I  was  Guynemer  and  in  the  other  planes  were  Huns. 
We  dove  at  a  plane,  shot  it  down  (merely  taking  a  picture) 
then  made  an  Immelmann  turn  like  this  [sketch  of  turn]  and 
took  the  man  from  the  rear.  Did  this  to  several  planes  and 
ended  by  sideslipping  into  the  field,  which  is  a  stunt  they  prac- 
tise abroad  in  order  to  land  in  a  small  field.  The  officer  in 
charge  of  flying  saw  me  and  when  I  landed  he  "grounded"  me 
and  confined  me  to  the  post  —  both  until  Monday  —  three 
days.  Then  he  did  admit  that  the  turns  were  very  good  and  the 
sideslipping  very  pretty,  but  that  stunting  was  n't  allowed.  If 
I  don't  practise  when  it  does  n't  harm  the  work  I  shall  go 
batty.  S.  R.  and  I  are  inventing  quick  manoeuvres  to  outwit 
the  Hun,  and  we  think  they  are  pretty  good  stunts.  Of  course 
it  was  wrong  to  stunt  without  permission,  but  I  hope  to  get 
permanent  permission,  so  I  can  be  absolutely  sure  of  the  posi- 
tion of  the  plane  with  my  eyes  shut.  There  never  will  be  a 
better  opportunity. 



The  man  who  flew  with  him  on  the  fatal  day,  Sergeant 
A.  L.  Held,  of  the  aviation  service,  who  siifi^ered  serious 
injuries  in  Clement's  fall,  and  has  recently  written,  "were 
he  alive  today,  I  would  not  hesitate  to  go  up  with  him,  or 
do  any  stunt  he  wanted  to  do  with  one  in  the  plane,"  has 
thus  described  also  an  instance  of  his  flying  alarmingly 
close  to  camp  buildings: 

On  one  occasion  he  did  this  while  up  one  evening  about  sun- 
down, when  he  did  the  "falling  leaf"  while  coming  down  to 
land  and  dived  right  over  one  of  the  hangers,  making  the  men 
believe  he  would  crash  into  a  bunch  of  them,  who  all  fled.  He 
then  leveled  off  his  plane  and  made  a  perfect  landing.  The 
officer  in  charge  ran  out  and  called  him  for  this,  telling  him  how 
risky  it  v/as  and  that  they  would  take  him  oft'  flying  if  he  did 
not  stop  stunting  near  the  buildings.  Lieutenant  Clement  sat 
quiet  and  listened  to  it  all  until  the  officer  got  through,  then 
turned  to  him  with  a  smile  and  said,  "Say,  George,  was  n't  that 
a  dandy,  though?"  just  as  though  he  had  not  heard  what  the 
officer  told  him,  and  the  officer  could  not  help  himself  but  had 
to  turn  away  and  laugh.  This  happened  time  and  again  until 
finally  they  threatened  to  take  him  off  flying,  which  would  have 
broken  his  heart. 

A  letter  written  bv  Clement  on  June  30  mav  well  have 
caused  apprehension:  "I  am  back  on  the  job  as  gunnery 
pilot  and  we  are  arranging  to  visit  Camp  Dick  on  the 
4th  to  stage  an  aerial  battle.  We  have  a  plane  painted 
like  a  Hun,  and  I  am  to  fly  it  and  drop  some  fake  bombs 
at  Camp  Dick  and  then  be  attacked,  while  attempting 
to  escape,  by  four  planes  with  machine  guns  firing  blank 
cartridges.    It  should  be  excellent  fun." 

A  great  crowd  assembled  on  the  afternoon  of  July  4 
at  Camp  Dick  on  the  State  Fair  Grounds  at  Dallas  to 



enjoy  the  "aerial  circus."  The  "stunts"  were  performed 
in  such  a  way  as  to  win  from  Lieutenant  Henri  Le  Maitre, 
a  French  ace,  the  highest  commendation,  especially  of 
Clement's  skill.  In  the  letter  from  Sergeant  Held  already 
quoted,  it  is  described  in  technical  detail,  and  the  tragic 
outcome  of  the  day  is  narrated  as  follows: 

Coming  close  to  Camp  Dick,  he  shut  off  his  motor  and  glided 
quietly  up  to  the  grandstand,  then  threw  his  motor  on  full  power 
just  as  he  went  over  it,  not  missing  the  grandstand  very  far. 
We  then  circled  around  the  camp  until  we  were  up  about  a 
thousand  feet,  when  I  let  out  a  small  parachute,  which  sailed 
slowly  down  on  the  field  and  was  very  pretty.  Shortly  after 
that  I  saw  the  other  planes  coming  and  I  showed  them  to 
Lieutenant  Clement,  who  then  started  to  gain  altitude  to  meet 
them.  When  we  got  up  to  them  the  fight  started  and,  all  being 
daring  fliers,  we  had  some  close  calls,  for  they  were  all  diving 
at  us  and  they  came  so  fast  that  Lieutenant  Clement  could  not 
keep  his  eyes  on  all  of  them,  so  he  shouted  to  me,  "Keep  your 
eye  on  them,  Held,"  which  were  the  last  words  he  spoke,  for 
just  then  Lieutenant  Martin  dived  at  us,  which  was  pretty 
close,  and  Lieutenant  Clement  thought  it  looked  pretty  good 
so  he  started  his  "fake  fall"  which  he  had  planned,  by  turning 
into  a  "barrel  roll,"  and  letting  it  go  into  a  tail  spin,  from  which 
he  never  took  it  out  until  it  was  too  late.  He  enjoyed  the  tail 
spin  because  he  turned  to  me  and  laughed,  and  never  did  he 
lose  control  of  his  plane  like  some  people  thought  he  did,  but 
had  it  under  perfect  control  until  we  hit  the  ground.  Misjudg- 
ing his  distance  was  the  cause  of  the  accident,  and,  although  he 
had  the  plane  out  of  the  spin  just  before  we  hit  the  ground,  he 
did  not  take  it  out  in  time,  which  forced  him  to  the  ground  and 
it  was  impossible  to  avoid  it  in  such  a  short  distance. 

They  told  me  he  was  killed  instantly  when  I  regained  con- 
sciousness later  in  the  evening  at  St.  Paul's  Sanitarium.  When 
the  train  left  Dallas  with  his  body,  his  fellow-flyers  dropped 



flowers  on  the  train  from  planes  until  it  was  well  on  its  way  from 
Dallas.  I  do  not  think  that  there  was  another  man  in  our  field 
that  had  as  many  friends  as  he  had  and  it  gives  me  great  pleasure 
to  write  about  him. 

As  commander  of  the  fliers  in  the  Dallas  exhibition, 
Clement  had  selected  the  men  who  were  to  take  part  in  it. 
In  his  cardcase  a  diagram  was  found  after  his  death, 
showing  the  positions  and  manoeuvres  he  had  planned  for 
his  fellow-fliers  and  himself.  At  the  very  last  he  was 
scheduled  to  make  the  tail  spin,  which  resulted  in  his  death. 

His  devoted  friend.  Lieutenant  Arthur,  must  be  quoted 
once  again,  and  finally: 

He  was  an  unusually  modest  boy,  a  Harvard  man  every  other 
Harvard  man  should  be  proud  of.  Extremely  fond  of  his  Alma 
Mater,  it  was  almost  impossible  to  draw  from  him  an  account 
of  his  own  achievements  there,  as  an  undergraduate.  He  was 
completely  without  affectation  or  snobbishness,  yet  he  believed 
that  only  the  worth-while  people  were  worth  making  his  inti- 
mates. So  he  told  me.  But  the  entire  Field  mourned,  from 
the  lowest  private  up,  when  he  was  killed.  I  never  saw  such 
universal  sorrow.  I  believe  it  was  because  Freddy's  actuating, 
big  principle  in  life  was  to  make  other  people  happy.  As  a 
flier,  he  was  the  ideal  type  —  very  expert  and  absolutely  with- 
out fear.  But  it  made  us  hate  the  game  and  hate  war,  when  we 
lost  him. 

Of  the  deep  affection  in  which  he  is  remembered  by  a 
host  of  others  the  record  is  both  poignant  and  abundant. 
A  silver  tablet  awarded  for  his  acrobatic  flying  at  Dallas 
was  sent  to  Clement's  parents.  He  was  buried  July  9  at 
Rutland,  Vermont. 



LL.B.    1912 

UoNALD  Fairfax  Ray  was  a  North  Carolinian,  a 
graduate  of  the  University  of  North  Carolina  and  of  the 
Harvard  Law  School.  At  the  annual  meeting  of  the 
North  Carolina  Bar  Association  at  Greensboro,  in  that 
state,  in  1919,  Captain  Ray's  law  partner,  N.  A.  Sinclair, 
Esq.,  of  Fayetteville,  North  Carolina,  presented  a  me- 
morial paper  upon  him  which  provides  the  best  possible 
basis  for  this  memoir.    In  substance  it  read  as  follows: 

Donald  Fairfax  Ray  was  born  in  Fayetteville,  September  26, 
1888.  He  was  the  only  living  child  of  Captain  Neill  W.  Ray  and 
Mrs.  Laura  Tatz  (Pearson)  Ray.  His  father  died  when  he  was 
only  nine  years  old,  and  nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  than 



the  perfect  sympathy  and  comradeship  that  existed  between 
him  and  his  mother  for  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

After  attending  the  Fayetteville  schools,  he  went  to  a  well- 
known  school  for  boys  at  Woodberry,  Virginia,  where  he  re- 
mained for  two  years.  He  then  entered  the  University  at 
Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina,  on  August  12,  1905,  where  he  was 
graduated,  taking  the  A.B.  degree  in  June,  1909.  The  follow- 
ing September  he  entered  the  Harvard  Law  School  where  he 
took  the  full  three  years'  course  in  law,  graduating  in  1912. 
After  leaving  Harvard,  he  went  to  Europe  and  traveled  exten- 
sivety  over  the  Continent  for  the  greater  part  of  the  next  year. 

He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  of  North  Carolina  at  the  fall 
term  of  1911,  a  year  before  finishing  at  Harvard,  and  upon  his 
return  from  Europe  he  entered  upon  the  practice  of  law  in 
Fayetteville,  where  his  great  natural  ability,  his  splendid  equip- 
ment, and  his  application  to  his  work  won  recognition  im- 
mediately. From  the  very  beginning,  he  rose  rapidly  in  his 
profession,  and  even  at  his  early  age  had  won  for  himself  a 
distinguished  position  at  the  bar.  He  became  a  member  of  the 
law  firm  of  Sinclair,  Dye,  and  Ray  in  January,  1915,  and  with  an 
active  practice  in  the  Superior  and  Supreme  Courts,  developed 
into  a  strong  and  successful  advocate  before  both  court  and  jury, 
often  winning  the  highest  encomiums  from  the  judges  before 
whom  he  appeared. 

He  made  a  profound  study  of  the  European  War  and  its 
underlying  causes,  and  was  regarded  as  an  authority  on  all 
questions  pertaining  to  it.  He  became  convinced  in  the  begin- 
ning of  1916  that  America  would  be  drawn  into  the  war,  and, 
therefore,  entered  the  Officers'  Training  Camp  at  Plattsburg, 
New  York,  in  the  summer  of  that  year.  When  the  United 
States  declared  war  in  April,  1917,  he  immediately  arranged  his 
business  affairs  so  that  he  might  enlist,  and  entered  the  first 
class  in  the  Officers'  Training  Camp  at  Oglethorpe,  Georgia, 
from  which  he  was  graduated,  and  was  commissioned,  August  15, 
1917,  as  first  lieutenant  of  Field  Artillery. 



On  August  18,  1917,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Ann  McKimmon, 
of  Raleigh,  North  Carolina,  and  after  a  few  weeks'  leave  was 
ordered  to  duty  at  Camp  Jackson,  South  Carolina.  In  Decem- 
ber, 1917,  he  was  promoted  to  captain  in  the  156th  Field  Artil- 
lery, and  a  few  days  thereafter  was  offered,  and  accepted,  a 
position  on  the  staff  of  General  William  J.  Snow.  He  remained 
at  Camp  Jackson  until  the  spring  of  1918,  when  he  was  ordered 
to  Post  Field,  Fort  Sill,  Oklahoma,  to  take  a  course  of  six  weeks' 
training  in  aerial  observation.  He  had  all  but  completed  this 
course,  lacking  only  six  flights  of  finishing,  when  his  strength 
gave  way  under  the  terrific  strain  in  the  intense  heat,  and  he 
suffered  an  attack  of  something  like  sunstroke  on  returning  from 
a  flight.  From  this  attack  he  never  completely  rallied,  and  in  a 
few  days,  on  July  6,  1918,  he  died.  His  devoted  wife,  who  was 
with  him  at  both  Camp  Jackson  and  Fort  Sill,  was  with  him 
during  his  illness  and  death,  and  brought  his  body  home  where 
he  was  laid  to  rest  by  the  side  of  his  father  in  Cross  Creek 

Thus  ended  a  noble  life  crowned  by  a  successful  career. 
Though  his  life  was  short,  he  had  "lived  much."  His  life  was 
full  of  usefulness  and  was  an  inspiration.  The  worthy  son  of  a 
great  lawyer  and  soldier  of  the  Confederacy,  early  in  life  he  set 
his  mark  high,  and  always  lived  up  to  it.  He  was  a  member  of 
the  American  Bar  Association,  and  the  North  Carolina  Bar 
Association,  and  if  his  life  had  been  spared,  would  beyond  ques- 
tion have  become  a  great  lawyer.  As  it  was,  he  had  prepared, 
tried,  briefed  and  argued,  and  participated  in  suits  involving 
not  only  important  interests,  but  also  grave  and  complicated 
principles,  and  in  such  manner  as  to  win  the  admiration  of  his 
professional  brethren.  His  training  was  thorough,  his  tastes 
scholarly,  his  mental  processes  clear  and  logical,  and  his  literary 
style  at  once  vigorous,  informed  by  good  taste,  and  remarkable 
for  its  purity.  The  charm  of  his  personality  and  his  fine  sense 
of  humor  made  him  a  delightful  companion.  His  judgment  was 
unerring,  and  his  advice  was  frequently  sought  by  men  much 



older  than  he  on  important  matters  of  business.  He  was  gentle 
and  modest,  and  yet  he  was  uncompromising  in  his  convictions. 
He  was  an  antagonist  to  be  feared  in  any  contest  for  what  he 
believed  to  be  right.  He  took  an  active  part  in  business  and 
political  activities,  and  his  influence  for  good  in  public  affairs 
is  felt  as  a  living  force  today. 

In  Cross  Creek  Cemetery  today,  beneath  a  granite  shaft, 
beautiful  in  the  purity  of  its  lines,  which  typify  their  lives,  are 
resting  side  by  side  the  ashes  of  two  men  whose  lives  have  been 
a  benedict  on  —  lawyers,  patriots,  soldiers.  Christians  —  father 
and  son.  Captain  Neill  W.  Ray  and  Captain  Donald  Fairfax 

To  this  tribute  from  a  professional  associate  in  the  law 
may  well  be  added  the  following  words  in  a  personal  letter 
from  Major-General  William  T.  Snow,  Chief  of  Field 
Artillery,  U.S.A.,  to  whose  staff  Captain  Ray  was  at- 
tached for  a  short  time: 

I  had  never  met  him  prior  to  the  Camp  Jackson  days.  How- 
ever, he  was  so  well  recommended  to  me  and  created  such  a 
favorable  impression  upon  my  personally  observing  him  that 
I  detailed  him  as  a  member  of  my  staff.  He  had  a  most  pleas- 
ant and  agreeable  personality,  and  was  a  consistently  hard  and 
thorough  worker  in  an  effort  to  learn  his  new  profession,  the 
military.  I  not  only  was  strongly  attached  to  him  personally 
but  also  had  the  highest  regard  for  his  ability,  and  I  think  he 
would  have  made  a  most  efficient  officer  had  he  lived. 



Graduate  School  of  Arts  and  Sciences  1911-12 

(connected  with  Harvard  only  through  taking  one 
course  of  drama  study  in  the  Graduate  School  for  a  single 
year,  this  Yale  ace  with  three  German  planes  to  his  credit 
contributes  a  shining  name  to  the  Harvard  Roll  of  Honor. 
Maxwell  Oswald  Parry  was  born  in  Indianapolis,  In- 
diana, December  28,  1886,  a  son  of  David  McLean  Parry 



and  Hessie  Daisy  (Maxwell)  Parry.  His  grandfather, 
Henry  Parry,  was  a  well-known  engineer  in  Indianapolis, 
president  of  the  Parry  Manufacturing  Company,  and  in 
1902,  president  of  the  National  Association  of  Manu- 
facturers. Through  the  Pennsylvania  Welch  ancestry  of 
his  father,  Maxwell  Parry,  as  he  registered  himself  at  Har- 
vard, was  descended  from  General  John  Cadwalader  of 
the  Revolutionary  Army.  His  mother's  ancestors  came 
from  England  to  Cecil  County,  Maryland,  in  the  seven- 
teenth century.  She  was  a  descendant  of  George  Read, 
of  Delaware,  a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

Parry's  preparation  for  Yale,  where  he  graduated  in 
1909,  was  made  at  the  Culver  (Indiana)  Military  Academy, 
the  American  College,  Strassburg,  Germany,  and  the 
Hotchkiss  School,  Lakeville,  Connecticut.  In  the  "Y^ale 
Obituary  Record,"  from  which  this  memoir  is  chiefly 
drawn,  it  is  recorded  that  "he  received  a  second  dispute 
Junior  and  second  colloquy  Senior  appointment,  and  won 
the  first  Ten  Eyck  Prize  at  the  Junior  Exhibition.  He 
contributed  to  the  Courant  and  the  Record,  was  Fence 
Orator  Sophomore  year,  and  in  Senior  year  was  elected 
Class  Orator  and  a  member  of  the  Triennial  Committee. 
He  took  part  in  the  various  plays  of  the  Dramatic  Asso- 
ciation, and  was  president  of  that  organization  Senior 

All  this  bespoke  a  vivid  interest  in  literature  and  the 
drama.  But  for  a  time  after  graduating  at  Yale,  he 
devoted  himself  to  business,  first  as  secretarv  and  adver- 
tising  manager  of  the  Parry  Automobile  Company,  of  In- 
dianapolis, and  afterwards  as  secretary  of  the  Golden  Hill 
Estates  Company.    More  personally  he  expressed  himst^lf 



through  writing  many  articles  and  dramatic  reviews  for 
the  Indianapolis  Neivs,  and  through  contributions  to 
magazines.  He  also  wrote  a  number  of  plays,  "Boys  of 
Gettysburg,"  "The  Lie  Beautiful,"  "The  Flower  of 
Assisi"  (in  memory  of  a  classmate),  "Dad,"  and  "Stingy," 
which  was  produced  in  the  year  after  his  death  at  the 
Punch  and  Judy  Theatre  in  New  York  by  the  Stuart 
Walker  Players.  He  became  a  member  of  the  Drama 
League  and  the  Little  Theatre  Society,  and  established 
a  connection  with  the  Washington  Square  Players.  At 
the  end  of  his  year  of  study  in  the  Harvard  Graduate 
School,  he  received  the  degree  of  M.A.  at  Yale. 

His  military  career  is  thus  summarized  in  the  "Yale 
Obituarv  Record": 

He  entered  the  Air  Service  on  August  27,  1917,  and  after  com- 
pleting a  course  at  the  Ground  School  at  Columbus,  Ohio,  was 
attached  to  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  for  training.  He  flew  at 
different  camps  in  Canada,  and  was  then  assigned  to  the  147th 
Aero  Squadron  at  Camp  Hicks,  Fort  Worth,  Texas. ^  He  went 
abroad  with  this  unit  early  in  1918,  and  about  the  first  of  July 
was  ordered  to  the  Chateau-Thierry  front.  About  two  days 
after  their  arrival,  Lieutenant  Parry  and  five  other  members  of 
the  squadron  met  and  conquered  the  famous  "Richthofen 
Circus,"  and  within  the  next  week  Lieutenant  Parry  had  in  all 
three  enemy  planes  to  his  credit.  On  July  8  he  attacked  alone 
a  German  formation  of  thirteen  Fokkers  and  was  killed.  He 
was  at  first  reported  missing  in  action,  and  it  was  not  until 
March,  1919,  that  definite  word  of  his  death  was  received 
through  the  War  Department.  He  was  buried  by  the  Germans 
in  the  Military  Cemetery  at  ^'audeuil.  The  French  Govern- 
ment has  awarded  him  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  with  palm,  and  the 

1  His  commission  was  that  of  second  lieutenant,  Aviation  Section, 
Signal  Corps. 



American  Distinguished  Service  Cross  has  also  been  given  to 

The  following  citation,  in  a  general  order  of  the  Army, 
accompanied  his  award  of  the  Croix  de  Guerre: 

Pilote  de  chasse  de  graiid  courage  et  d'une  hahilite  hors  de  pair. 
Le  2  juillet  1918  faisant  partie  d'une  patrouille  de  sept  qui  attaqua 
douze  avians  ennemis,  a  ahattu  tin  de  ses  adversaires. 



Class  of  1907 

VJn  the  day  before  Sergeant  Dudley  Gilman  Tucker  of  the 
Lafayette  Flying  Corps  fell  in  aerial  combat  he  surrendered 
to  a  friend,  who  wished  to  go  to  Paris  for  his  transfer  to 
the  American  aviation  forces,  his  own  permission,  sorely 
as  he  needed  change  and  relaxation  after  nearly  eight 
months  of  continuous  service  at  the  front.  "Do  you 
know,  Harry,"  he  said  to  this  friend  as  they  were  smok- 



ing  together  on  the  evening  of  July  7,  1918,  "I  believe  I 
ought  to  take  that  permission  myself.  Something  seems 
to  tell  me  I  ought."  "All  right,"  answered  the  friend, 
"go  ahead.  It's  yours,  you  know."  Then  they  smoked 
in  silence,  broken  by  Tucker's  saying,  "No,  you  take  it. 
\ou  have  a  real  reason  for  going,  and  1  have  only  this 
feeling  which  comes  over  me  so  strongly."  Tucker's  own 
life  was  so  far  removed  from  the  commonplace  that  this 
premonition  of  his  death  strikes  no  incongruous  note. 

He  was  born  in  New  York  City,  April  7,  1887,  of  New 
England  ancestry  in  which  such  names  as  those  of  Gov- 
ernor Thomas  Dudley  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay  Colony 
and  Nathaniel  Gilman  of  Exeter,  New  Hampshire,  are 
found.  His  parents,  Gilman  Henry  Tucker  and  Caroline 
Low  (Kimball)  Tucker,  were  lovers  of  books,  art,  and 
travel.  They  established  a  Free  Public  Library  at  Ray- 
mond, New  Hampshire,  the  early  home,  and  afterwards 
the  summer  home,  of  Tucker's  father,  who  for  many  years 
was  secretary  of  the  American  Book  Company.  His 
mother  was  one  of  the  organizers,  in  1883,  of  what  is 
now  called  the  Messiah  School,  Spring  Valley,  New 
York,  a  home-like  school  for  dependent  children;  of  this 
she  became  honorary  president. 

Tucker  prepared  for  college  at  Dr.  Louis  Ray's  School 
in  New  York,  and  at  the  Hackley  School,  at  Tarrytown, 
New  York.  He  entered  Harvard  in  the  autumn  of  1903, 
a  good  student,  who  learned  quickly  and  easily,  and  found 
no  difficulty  in  completing  the  studies  required  for  his 
degree  by  the  middle  of  his  senior  year.  In  college  he 
became  a  member  of  Kappa  Gamma  Chi,  of  his  class 
lacrosse   team   in   the  freshman,  sophomore,   and  junior 



years,  and  of  the  class  hockey  team  in  his  senior  year. 
As  a  freshman  he  suffered  a  serious  disappointment 
through  breaking  one  of  his  ankles  while  playing  football. 
This  was  his  favorite  sport,  but,  in  conformity  with  his 
father's  wish,  he  gave  it  up.  For  his  mother's  gratifica- 
tion he  played  the  violin  and  sketched  a  little,  and  for  his 
own  pleasure  he  cultivated  his  good  voice. 

Leaving  Cambridge  in  February,  1907,  Tucker  made  the 
last  of  the  four  European  trips  which  were  a  definite  part 
of  his  parents'  scheme  of  education.  These  were  not  mere 
tourist  travel,  but  were  sojourns  here  and  there.  In  1907 
he  stayed  in  Sicily  and  southern  Italy,  enjoying  early 
morning  swims  in  the  Ionian  Sea,  tramping,  climbing, 
tennis  and  all  the  life  of  the  English  colony  in  which  he 
found  himself.  On  earlier  trips  he  had  visited  the  Tyrol, 
Switzerland,  Germany,  England,  Scotland,  and  Wales.  His 
mother  recalls  his  coaxing  her  to  climb  Snowdon  —  "just 
we  two."  As  the  gathering  mists  warned  them  to  turn 
back,  he  pleaded,  "Only  a  little  farther":  thus  they 
reached  the  top  and  both  were  glad.    She  writes  also: 

Life  at  his  country  home  at  Raymond  was  always  very  full 
for  him,  with  his  pony,  his  canoe,  and  his  house-parties,  when 
he  and  his  guests  danced  in  the  moonlight  on  the  lawn,  and 
swam,  and  drove,  and  tramped  over  the  hills.  Always  he  had 
books  —  best  of  all  pleasures  to  him  —  and  he  was  constantly 
collecting  them.  During  his  months  in  camp  in  France  his 
companions  wondered  that  he  would  burden  himself  with  so 
many  books,  with  all  the  frequent  changes  of  base;  but  they 
enjoyed  the  stories  which  he  found  in  them.  One,  Jean  Marchet, 
wrote:  "He  was  always  making  fun  for  us,  reading  or  telling 
stories  or  making  up  plays.    //  etait  un  ires  bon  camarade." 



For  the  academic  year,  1907-08,  after  leaving  Cam- 
bridge, Tucker  attended  the  Columbia  Law  School,  try- 
ing to  like  the  lawyer's  profession  in  order  to  please  his 
father.  Not  succeeding  in  this,  he  entered  the  employ  of 
the  American  Book  Company  in  1909,  and  after  five  years 
turned  the  executive  training  thus  acquired  to  account 
in  a  position  which  greatly  interested  him  —  that  of  busi- 
ness manager  of  the  Washington  Square  Players  in  New 
York.  The  history  of  this  organization  of  true  devotees 
of  the  dramatic  art  —  a  historv  abundantlv  written  in  the 
public  press  of  the  two  years  preceding  the  entrance  of 
the  United  States  into  the  war  —  contributes  a  bright 
spot  to  the  theatrical  annals  of  New  Y^ork.  Tucker's  part 
in  it  all  was  important,  and  the  path  that  led  him  to  France 
had  its  beginning  in  an  enterprise  directly  connected  with 
the  stage,  for  it  was  while  he  was  in  Panama,  with  his 
friend  Austen  ("Billy")  Parker,  on  their  way  to  China 
and  Japan  to  study  the  Oriental  theatre,  that  they  fore- 
saw their  country's  surelj^  joining  the  Allies,  and  set  their 
faces  at  once  towards  France.  Of  the  Panama  experience 
each  of  these  friends  subsequently  wrote.  In  a  letter  from 
Tucker  to  a  cousin  are  these  words: 

"Somewhere  in  France," 
June  27,  1917. 

A  lot  of  things  culminated  finally  in  Billy  Parker  and  my- 
self setting  sail  for  Panama  en  route  to  China  and  Japan, 
where  we  intended  to  study  and  write  about  the  native  theatre. 
Our  idea  was  to  grab  a  cargo  boat  at  Panama,  but  we  found  that 
that  sounded  easier  than  it  was.  Most  of  the  cargo  boats  were 
carrying  munitions  for  Vladivostok  and  would  n't  take  a  pas- 
senger at  any  price.  So,  after  waiting  about  two  weeks,  we 
decided  to  occupy  our  time  by  a  little  exploring.    Consequently 



we  set  off  into  the  jungle  to  be  gone  two  weeks.  Our  trip 
stretched  out  to  six,  however,  and  most  of  our  friends  gave  us 
up  for  dead  and  the  militarj^  authorities  sent  a  torpedo-boat 
destroj'er  down  the  coast  looking  for  us.  We  fooled  them, 
though,  and  after  a  ten-day  trip  in  a  native  dugout  reached 
Panama  City,  battered  and  weary  but  safe  and  sound. 

We  found  to  our  sorrow  that  our  boat  for  Japan  or  China  was 
just  as  far  in  the  distance  as  ever,  and  as  war  with  Germany 
seemed  certain  we  decided  to  beat  it  over  to  France  and  get  in 
the  game.  The  decision  was  hastened  by  discovering  that  a 
boat  was  leaving  that  night  direct  for  Bordeaux,  so  we  hustled 
like  sin,  cashing  checks,  seeing  consuls  and  "sich"  (for  our  pass- 
ports were  for  China),  buying  steamer  passages,  but  in  the  end 
we  made  the  boat  with  several  hours  to  spare.  The  voyage 
lasted  twenty-one  days.  We  stopped  at  about  every  port  on 
the  northern  coast  of  South  America  and,  in  addition,  at  the 
islands  of  Trinidad,  Martinique,  Dominica,  and  Guadeloupe. 
After  Trinidad,  Billy  and  I  were  the  only  English-speaking 
people  on  board,  which  did  not  tend  toward  making  our  trip 
lively,  but  it  was  mighty  good  practice  in  brushing  up  our 

From  another  point  of  view  the  Panama  experience  is 
recounted  in  a  letter  from  Tucker's  friend,  Parker,  written 
in  retrospect  from  1922: 

When  two  men  have  lived  together,  worked  together,  strug- 
gled through  jungles  and  both  been  laid  flat  with  fever,  and 
flown  together,  they  come  close  to  knowing  each  other.  Dudley 
and  I  did  all  of  those  things,  and  I  knew  him  as  one  of  the  most 
lovable  men  I  have  ever  encountered.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
outrageous  set  of  circumstances  through  which  he  could  not 
go  —  and  emerge  grinning.  There  was  one  time  I  shall  always 
remember  when  I  think  of  him.  We  had  left  the  jungle  and  were 
coming  down  a  steep  mountainside  in  the  Darien,  following  a 



creek  bottom,  wading  up  to  our  waists  and  slipping  over  huge 
boulders.  The  water  —  we  had  been  in  it  for  five  hours  —  was 
as  cold  as  ice  and  the  sun  was  blistering  all  of  us  that  was  out 
of  water.  At  last,  when  the  guides  said  that  we  would  strike  a 
"rancho"  one  mile  farther  down,  we  stopped  to  rest  and  smoke. 
Then  one  of  those  torrential  rainstorms  broke,  and  it  was  as  if 
a  hose  had  been  turned  on  us. 

In  the  scurrying  to  get  to  shelter,  the  guide  who  was  carrying 
our  pack  stumbled  and  fell  into  the  creek,  drenching  our  dry 
clothes  and  blankets,  ruining  the  tobacco  and  most  of  the  food. 
Dudley  and  I  sat  under  a  ledge  while  the  rain  poured  down, 
contemplating  the  uncomfortable  night  ahead  of  us.  Then, 
suddenly,  Dudley  broke  into  song,  —  "Panama,  Panama,  land 
of  milk  and  honey,  skies  so  bright  and  sunny.  .  .  ."  And  he 
put  back  his  head  and  laughed.    It  helped  us  over  a  rough  spot. 

When  we  came  out  of  the  jungle  we  found  ourselves  on  the 
ranch  of  a  German  who,  suspecting  that  we  were  acting  for  the 
Intelligence  Department  of  the  Army,  deceived  us  with  false 
hopes  that  a  steamer  would  soon  be  along  to  take  us  to  Panama. 
From  his  point  of  view,  we  had  landed  at  Puerto  Pinas  on  our 
own  hook,  and  we  would  have  to  get  away  on  our  own  hook, 
I  think  that  it  was  only  when  I  intimated  that  a  destroyer 
would  arrive  for  us  if  we  did  n't  land  back  in  Panama  City  soon 
that  he  changed  his  mind.  At  least,  we  were  on  our  way  within 
twenty-four  hours. 

Dudley  did  not  want  to  go  to  war;  he  hated  the  idea,  and  he 
had  his  heart  set  on  going  to  China.  But,  after  we  returned  to 
Panama  City  and  discovered  that  war  was  breaking,  we  thought 
it  over  —  thought  about  it,  and  said  little.  Dudley  finally 
decided  that  it  was  a  plain  case  of  duty;  and,  on  eight  hours' 
notice,  we  sailed  eastward  instead  of  to  the  Orient.  That,  too, 
was  typical  of  him. 

I  don't  know  of  a  man  among  the  Americans  in  French  avia- 
tion who  was  better,  or  more  generally,  loved  than  Dudley. 
Everyone  liked  him  for  his  cheerfulness  and  for  his  utter  willing- 



ness  to  see  the  thing  through  to  the  end.  Though  none  of  us 
knows  exactly  how  the  end  came,  we  all  know  that  he  went  down 
fighting,  with  his  teeth  set  and  his  hopes  high.  And  to  most  of 
us  that  means  far  more  than  knowing  the  painful  details. 

The  two  friends  reached  France  in  March,  and  on  March 
28  Tucker  entered  the  Foreign  Legion.  Early  in  April  he 
transferred  to  the  Lafayette  Flying  Corps.  From  May  22 
to  January  26,  1918,  he  was  in  training  at  the  aviation 
schools  of  Avord,  Pau,  and  Le  Plessis-Belleville.  He  was 
breveted  pilote  (Caudron)  and  promoted  corporal,  Septem- 
ber 30,  1917,  and  before  going  to  the  front,  January  28, 
1918,  won  himself  the  record  of  a  skillful  and  courageous 
pilot.  He  was  assigned  first  to  Escadrille  Spad  74,  and 
transferred  later  to  Spad  15,  in  the  famous  Groupe  de 
Combat  13.  In  June  he  was  promoted  sergeant.  There 
was  heavy  fighting  to  be  done  on  those  memorable  sum- 
mer days  of  1918.  It  is  written  in  "The  Lafayette  Flying 
Corps":  "All  the  way  from  Rheims  to  Montdidier  the 
enemy  was  strong  in  the  air,  and  Spad  15  was  always 
in  the  thick  of  it:  ground-strafing,  infantry  liaison,  bal- 
loon attacks,  and  constant  offensive  patrols." 

In  the  letters  written  by  Tucker  from  France  there  are 
passages  reflecting  his  life  both  before  and  after  he  was 
ordered  to  the  front.  The  letter  of  June  27,  1917,  from 
which  a  quotation  has  already  been  made  contains  these 
paragraphs : 

A  lot  has  been  written  about  Paris  in  war-time,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  bore  you  with  my  particular  variation  on  that  theme. 
I  will,  however,  inflict  a  short  word  of  my  vicissitudes.  In  the 
first  place,  although  this  was  my  fifth  visit  to  Paris,  it  was  the 
first  time  that  I  ever  really  felt  as  if  I  belonged  there,  and  the 



first  time  that  I  found  myself  liking  the  city.  This  was  partly 
due,  no  doubt,  to  the  utter  absence  of  tourists  and  to  the  fact 
that  it  was  the  most  beautiful  season,  when  the  city  is  at  its 
loveliest  with  all  the  horsechestnuts  in  bloom,  the  fresh  green 
of  spring  everywhere;  but  it  was  more,  I  think,  that  now  for  the 
first  time  I  was  not  a  transient.  I  looked  on  it  as  my  home 
where  I  belonged.  I  did  no  sightseeing,  not  even  going  to  Notre 
Dame,  but  I  did  play  around  a  lot  both  with  the  Americans  — 
there  are  oodles  of  them  here  —  ambulance  men,  aviators,  cor- 
respondents, and  "sich";  and  with  the  French,  talking  as  much 
French  as  possible,  going  to  the  theatre,  and,  when  I  had  the 
price,  eating  extremely  well  at  the  famous  restaurants  and  get- 
ting a  good  working  knowledge  of  the  best  wines. 

All  in  all,  I  had  a  perfectly  bully  time.  Finally  all  the  red 
tape  was  rolled  up  and  I  signed  my  freedom  away,  becoming  a 
second-class  soldier  in  the  Foreign  Legion,  detached  for  Avia- 
tion. It  gave  me  a  real  thrill  to  find  myself  a  member  of  that 
famous  Legion  which  I  had  heard  of  and  read  about  so  often 
and  which  in  my  wildest  flight  of  imagination  I  never  expected 
to  join.  Of  course  so  far  I've  seen  nothing  of  the  War,  and  it  is 
even  hard  to  realize  in  this  little  country  town  that  there  is  a 
war;  and  it  will  probably  be  quite  a  considerable  time  before  I 
see  any  more  because  this  training  takes  two  or  three  months 
even  in  the  summer  when  the  weather  is  favorable. 

On  March  30,  1918,  he  wrote  his  niece.  Miss  Margaret 
S.  Huddleston,  a  daughter  of  J.  H.  Huddleston  (Har- 
vard, '86) : 

Just  a  line  in  answer  to  your  letter  which  came  yesterday. 
At  last,  I  am  at  the  front,  but  from  all  I  have  seen  of  fighting  I 
might  just  as  well  be  at  one  of  the  schools.  We  are  quartered 
about  forty  kilometres  back  of  the  line,  our  barracks  half 
hidden  in  a  small  wood  across  the  road  from  our  hangars  and 
the  flying  field.  For  the  first  ten  days  I  was  here  the  barracks 
were  not  quite  ready,  so  we  lived  in  billets  in  the  town,  a  quaint 



old  town  on  a  hillside.  My  room  was  at  the  top  of  the  village 
and  my  landlady  was  the  quaintest  little  old  Frenchwoman, 
who  slept  in  a  cupboard-bed  in  her  kitchen,  where  she  cooked 
over  an  open  fire  in  a  huge  fireplace. 

Besides  a  bedroom,  all  the  pilotes,  who  were  not  officers,  had 
a  mess  room  in  the  town,  where  we  live  when  not  working  or 
sleeping.  It's  rather  like  a  club,  for  the  pilotes  form  a  separate 
caste,  and  a  corporal  seems  to  outrank,  although  of  course  he 
really  does  n't,  an  adjutant  mechanic. 

Now  we  are  in  barracks,  where  we  have  a  big  common  living 
and  dining  room  and  a  number  of  small  sleeping  rooms,  in  each 
of  which  two  or  three  of  us  sleep. 

Our  escadrille  is  one  of  four  making  up  a  group  of  combat. 
All  of  them  are  equipped  with  the  latest  and  best  type  of  single- 
seaters,  a  big  200  H.  P.  brute;  but  as  yet  I  have  only  driven 
it  over  the  field  and  practised  a  few  stunts  getting  used  to  it, 
for  I  have  never  before  driven  this  type  of  machine.  It  has  two 
machine  guns,  both  fixed  and  firing  through  the  propeller,  which 
are  aimed  by  aiming  the  whole  blooming  machine.  I  have  never 
fired  them  yet,  but  the  other  day,  when  I  thought  I  might  get 
somewhere  near  the  lines,  my  mechanic  solemnly  loaded  them 
just  before  I  started  and  I  felt  very  important  indeed. 

Every  once  in  a  while,  as  a  matter  of  fact  two  or  three  times 
a  day  when  the  weather  permits,  five  or  six  of  the  fellows  go 
off  on  a  patrol  over  the  lines,  their  object  being  to  prevent  Oer- 
man  machines  flying  over  our  lines  to  get  information.  An 
hour  and  a  half  or  two  hours  later  they  come  back,  occasionally 
with  a  story  of  a  Oerman  or  Oermans  shot  down,  and  sometimes 
with  bullet  holes  in  their  planes.  So  far  they  have  always  all 
come  home,  and  everything  is  so  peaceful  hereabouts  that  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  believe  that  they  have  been  playing  an 
active  part  in  the  war.  Many  of  them,  too,  have  been  at  it 
for  two  or  three  years,  so  it  does  n't  seem  very  dangerous, 
and  I  am  beginning  to  have  a  sort  of  sympathy  for  those  who 
call  the  aviators  emhusques. 



I'm  mighty  glad  you  met  Arthur  Bluethenthal,  but  I'm  sure 
he  gave  you  a  false  idea  of  how  I  look.  I  can't  possibly  fill  out 
a  uniform  the  way  he  can.  Besides  you  must  realize  that  there  is 
no  regulation  uniform  in  the  French  Aviation,  and,  as  long  as 
we  conform  to  a  few  general  rules,  we  can  wear  any  doggone 
thing  we  please.  On  account  of  the  loss  of  my  baggage,  which 
now  seems  to  be  definite  and  permanent,  I  have  had  to  buy  a 
new  uniform  and  some  other  necessaries,  which  is  a  great  bur- 
den on  the  exchequer,  and  I've  still  got  a  few  things  to  get. 
Your  socks  came  at  the  psychological  moment  and  saved  my 
life;  I've  worn  them  almost  to  bits,  but  I  still  have  their  frag- 
ments and  also  the  wristers. 

More  socks  will  always  be  welcome,  but  I  have  a  superfluity 
of  knitted  helmets,  wristers,  and  mufflers.  Thin  sleeveless  and 
neckless  ssveaters  are  also  welcome,  but  our  great  and  crying 
need  is  cigarettes.  Being  in  the  French  Army,  we  are  not 
allowed  to  buy  from  the  American  Commissary. 

I've  strayed  a  long  way  from  "Bluey,"  have  n't  I?  He  and 
I  left  the  general  base  together  on  our  way  to  the  front,  and 
were  together  a  few  days  in  Paris.  He  is  doing  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent kind  of  work  from  mine.  He  drives  a  big  two-seater, 
which  does  bombing  and  reconnaissance. 

Oh,  by  the  way,  before  I  forget  it,  your  new  President,  Dr. 
Neilson,  was  my  adviser,  freshman  year  at  Harvard,  and  one 
of  my  best  beloved  professors,  senior  year.  I  fear  I  was  a  great 
trial  to  him,  and  it 's  only  a  bare  chance  that  he  will  remember 
me;  but  I  wish  if  you  get  the  chance  that  you  will  remind  him 
of  me  and  tell  him  I  wanted  most  particularly  to  be  remembered. 
The  few  real  talks  I  had  with  him  are  a  memory  I  will  always 
treasure.    He  is  a  man  it  is  a  great  privilege  to  know. 

To  his  mother  he  wrote,  April  18,  1918: 

Dearest  Little  Mother, 

Well,  D.  L.  M.,  I've  been  over  the  lines  several  times  now 
and  it  is  n't  so  very  terrible.    You  sail  around  in  the  sky  and 



watch  other  aeroplanes  doing  the  same  thing  and  looking  like 
nothing  in  the  world  so  much  as  a  big  black  tadpole  in  a  pool 
of  water.  You  know  you  hear  nothing  except  your  own  motor, 
and,  as  there  are  no  Bodies  just  now  on  our  front  and  no  very 
definite  perils,  the  country  seems  quite  peaceful  as  observed 
from  a  height  of  4000  metres.  Of  course  a  village  here  and  there 
is  noticeably  knocked  about  or  perhaps  smouldering,  while  the 
ground  in  places  is  quite  heavily  pock-marked  with  shell  holes, 
the  effect  of  which  against  the  green  is  as  if  some  genii  had  been 
sprinkling  the  fields  with  fuller's  earth  from  a  giant  shaker. 

The  white  blots  of  clouds  like  white  wool  which  appear  sud- 
denly and  mysteriously  all  over  the  sky  are  the  most  innocuous 
looking  things  in  the  world  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  are 
really  shrapnel  and  shells  from  anti-aircraft  guns;  and  really 
they  are  almost  as  innocuous  as  they  look,  as  not  one  plane  in  a 
thousand  do  they  bring  down,  their  only  purpose  being  simply 
to  keep  the  planes  at  a  respectable  height. 

I'm  mighty  glad  you  have  seen  pictures  of  Spads.  I've  got 
a  big  200  H.  P.,  one  that  runs  beautifully,  and  on  its  side  is 
painted  the  emblem  of  our  escadrille.  At  both  ends  there  are 
machine  guns,  so  you  see  I  'm  doubly  protected.  Tell  Margaret 
I  'm  thinking  of  naming  it  after  her,  it  is  so  husky  and  well  able 
to  look  out  for  itself.    [He  did  name  it  "Margot"  for  her.] 

By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you  we  'd  moved?  Well,  we  have.  We 
are  no  longer  quartered  in  the  schoolhouse  but  have  a  little 
house  in  the  village  all  to  ourselves,  a  kitchen,  a  dining-  and 
living-room,  and  three  bedrooms  where  we  sleep,  snug  and 
comfortable  as  can  be,  three  in  a  room.  It's  such  comfort  to 
have  our  mess,  sleeping,  and  living  quarters  together,  which 
was  impossible  before. 

Well,  last  night,  while  I  was  lying  comfortably  on  my  cot, 
after  dinner,  reading  the  February  Scribners  (which  with  the 
two  Green  Books  had  just  arrived),  I  heard  voices  through  the 
open  window  proceeding  from  the  doorway  of  the  little  cafe 
across  the  street,  struggling  hard  in  very,  very  bad  and  un- 



mistakably  American  French.  I  went  at  once  to  the  rescue, 
and  found  two  American  soldiers  trying  to  ask  their  way  to  a 
nearby  town  and  incidentally  to  get  something  to  eat.  I  in- 
terpreted for  them  and  then,  as  the  resources  of  the  little  cafe 
were  limited  as  to  food,  I  went  back  to  our  mess  to  forage. 
When  the  fellows  found  out  what  my  mission  was,  they  in- 
sisted on  my  inviting  them  over,  which  I  did.  We  gave  them 
some  good  fried  eggs  and  cold  meat,  to  say  nothing  of  bread, 
butter,  and  coffee  with  real  sugar  in  it.  They  enjoyed  it  hugely, 
as  they  were  pretty  tired  and  himgry.  They  were  part  of  an 
advance  party  sent  ahead  of  their  unit  on  bicycles  to  find  lodg- 
ings for  the  rest.  It  was  mighty  pleasant  for  me,  too,  to  have 
some  one  to  talk  United  States  to. 

They  were  both  regulars  and  among  the  first  of  our  troops  to 
see  actual  French  fighting.  One  of  them  was  a  real  old  soldier 
of  seventeen  years  standing,  who  had  seen  service  in  China  and 
the  Philippines.  The  other  was  much  younger.  The  French- 
men were  much  interested  in  them,  and  kept  Collins  and  me 
(Collins  is  the  young  Englishman  who  is  in  our  escadrille)  busy 
interpreting.  Finally  we  set  them  on  the  right  road  and  went 
home  to  bed. 

And  again,  on  June  21 : 

Dear  L.  M.  : 

I  started  a  letter  to  you  two  or  three  days  ago,  but  my  letter 
was  lost  before  I  could  finish  it.  I  cabled  to  you  two  or  three 
days  ago,  because  for  two  or  three  weeks  I  had  no  chance  to 
write.  At  the  beginning  of  the  last  big  attack  in  May  we  moved 
to  be  nearer  the  front.  We  got  bombed  out  of  the  next  place  we 
went  to,  and  since  then  we  have  moved  four  times;  in  the  con- 
sequent hurry  and  confusion  of  moving  I  really  have  not  had 
a  chance  to  w  rite.  Harry  Forster,^  whom  I  know  you  remember, 
is  now  a  member  of  the  same  escadrille,  and,  though  I  expect 

1  Henry  Forster  (Harvard,  '11),  brother  of  Frederick  Allen  Forster, 
'10  (see  Vol.  n,  pp.  138-1-10). 



him  to  leave  every  day  for  American  Naval  Aviation,  while  he 
stays  here  he  is  great  company  for  me,  because  I  have  been  long 
without  another  American  to  talk  to. 

I  've  done  quite  a  bit  of  flying  over  the  lines  lately,  but  have 
had  practically  no  fights.  One  time  my  lieutenant  and  I  at- 
tacked five  Bodies,  but  we  almost  immediately  turned  and  ran, 
sending  our  machines  down  in  a  steep  glide,  zigzagging  to  escape 
the  bullets  of  our  pursuers.  I  could  see  the  tracer  bullets  going 
by  my  companion's  machine,  and  when  we  finally  shook  them 
off,  we  had  dived  full  motor  for  nearly  two  thousand  metres  of 
height,  and  immediately  we  turned  and  climbed  to  continue 
our  patrol.  On  landing  one  hour  later,  we  found  that  the  lieu- 
tenant's machine  had  ten  or  twelve  bullet  holes  in  it,  while  I 
got  off  scot-free. 

Now  we  are  in  a  little  town  about  thirty  kilometres  from  the 
place  we  originally  moved  from,  but  still  within  reaching  dis- 
tance of  the  cathedral  town  I  wrote  you  about.  I  was  there 
this  morning,  as  it  was  mauvais  temps,  and  I  managed  to  get  a 
few  cigarettes  from  the  Smith  Girls'  canteen.  I  tell  them  about 
Margaret,  but  they  are  all  too  old  to  know  her  —  but  it  gets 
me  cigarettes. 

My  permission  has  been  refused,  because  all  permissions  to 
the  States  are  forbidden  for  the  present;  but  I  have  been  as- 
sured that  as  soon  as  these  permissions  are  renewed,  I  will  get 
one.  I  don't  know  whether  to  hold  out  for  a  permission  home 
or  try  to  transfer  to  the  United  States  forces.  What  do  you 
advise?  I  do  so  want  to  get  home  if  only  for  a  short  time.  But 
I  am  confused  by  a  morbid  sense  that  I  would  not  pass  the 
physical  examination.  I  am  not  in  good  shape,  not  that  I  am 
sick,  but  I  am  not  well.  My  group  is  a  fairly  typical  French 
one,  and  incidentally  contains  some  of  the  best  chasse  pilotes 
of  France.  I  shall  hold  out  in  the  French  Army  at  least  until  I 
hear  from  you.    I  will  be  largely  guided  by  your  letter. 

The  life,  at  present,  I  like  very  much,  but  I  am  handicapped 
in  that  because  of  my  hopes  for  a  permission  home.     I  do  not 



dare  ask  a  permission  here  in  France,  and  it  is  now  eight  months 
and  more  since  I  have  had  one. 

At  present  we  are  quartered  in  a  large  village  in  the  midst 
of  a  heavilj'  rolling  country  which  reminds  me  very  much  of 
New  England.  Nearly  all  the  houses  here  have  large  windows 
with  rows  of  geraniums  inside.  It  is  the  prettiest  French  vil- 
lage I  think  that  I  have  ever  seen.  .  .  . 

It 's  bed  time  now,  and  it 's  early  work  tomorrow.  Your  sys- 
tem of  first-class  registered  mail  with  the  cigarettes  works  to 
perfection;  I  don't  think  I 've  lost  a  package — keep  it  up.  The 
packages  sent  by  my  friends  seem  to  have  hard  luck. 

Lots  of  love  to  all,  D.  L.  M.,  and  especially  to  you. 

How  much  Tucker  was  sacrificing  in  forfeiting  his  'per- 
mission  on  July  7  to  his  friend,  in  ignoring  his  own  need 
of  change  —  for  he  had  never  wholly  thrown  off  the  effects 
of  jungle  malaria  contracted  in  Central  America  —  and  in 
stifling  his  strong  premonition  of  disaster,  this  letter  clearly 
suggests.  On  the  next  morning,  July  8,  he  went  on  his 
regular  patrol  over  the  lines.  This  ended  in  an  unequal 
combat  in  the  vicinity  of  Soissons  and  Chateau-Thierry 
with  fifteen  German  monoplanes  against  five  single-seated 
Spads.  The  other  four,  manned  by  Frenchmen,  returned 
in  safety  to  their  base,  but  Tucker  never  came  back  and 
was  reported  missing. 

All  along  the  Chateau-Thierry  front  the  Germans  were 
preparing  for  their  great  retreat,  or  trying  to  prevent  it. 
Skirmishes  were  frequent,  reports  were  made  carelessly, 
the  wounded  were  cared  for  as  well  as  possible,  but  facili- 
ties were  indifferent. 

On  this  great  battle  field  Tucker  fell,  in  a  level,  sunny 
grain  field  beside  the  Longpont-Chaudun  road.    Pieces  of 



an  aeroplane  were  found  there  even  two  years  later.  The 
Germans  reported  to  Berlin  his  fall,  wounds,  and  death 
while  unconscious.  Their  record  is  complete  —  the  type 
of  plane,  Tucker's  name,  and  New  York  address  —  but 
though  it  tells  of  his  removal  to  a  hospital  in  a  little  parish 
church  at  Checrise  and  his  burial  in  the  adjoining  church- 
yard, there  is  stronger  evidence  that  his  body  was  found 
on  the  battle  field  at  Vierzy.  In  spite  of  unremitting 
search  by  the  Red  Cross,  these  facts  were  not  ascertained 
until  the  Berlin  records  were  examined  in  August,  1920, 
and  Tucker's  body  was  identified  in  the  following  month. 
It  now  rests  in  the  care  of  his  home  country  in  the  LTnited 
States  Military  Cemetery  at  Seringes-et-Nesle,  near  Fere- 
en-Tardenois,  with  friends  and  countrymen. 

Two  long  summers  spent  in  searching  for  traces  of  his 
fate  and  the  place  of  his  burial  confirmed  his  mother's  be- 
lief that  it  is  the  spirit  only  that  counts;  and  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1921  she  placed  a  bronze  tablet,  commemorative 
of  her  son's  devotion  to  right  and  liberty,  on  a  beautiful 
spot  given  her  by  the  owner,  the  Marquis  Guy  de  Lou- 
bersac,  a  French  aviation  officer,  on  the  height  of  Violaine- 
Longpont,  overlooking  the  field  where  he  fell  and  the 
whole  region  over  which  he  had  often  flown,  filled  with 
the  pure  joy  of  flight.  This  spot  can  be  reached  by  taxi 
from  the  railroad  station  atVillers-Cotterets,  or  by  a  mile 
climb  up  the  hill  from  the  station  at  Longpont.  It  is  on 
the  farm  of  M.  Leon  Maurice,  maire  of  Violaine-Longpont, 

At  the  end  of  the  service  diary  which  Tucker,  like  his 
comrades,  was  required  to  keep,  his  commanding  officer 
wrote : 



Le  Sergent  Tucker  n'est  pas  rentre. 

Secteur  25,  10  juillet  1918. 

A  mon  brave  pilote  Tucker  pour  touie  Vestime  que  je  lui  ai  portee 
et  pour  toutes  les  satisfactions  inoubliables  quil  ma  donnees  durant 
son  court  sejour  a  mon  escadrille  a  toujours  donne  le  plus  bel 
exemple  d'energie  et  de  devouement. 

V^  AouT  1918 
Le  Capitaine  Commandant 
Escadrille  Spad  15 

In  the  summer  of  1922  Tucker's  family  received  notice 
that  the  Medaille  Militaire  had  been  posthumously  awarded 
to  him,  in  the  following  terms: 

Citoyen  americain  venu  s'engager  dans  la  Legion  Etrangere 
pour  servir  sous  les  plis  du  drapeau  franqais.  Affecte  pour  la 
suite  dans  une  escadrille  de  chasse  s'est  revele  comme  un  pilote 
plein  de  hravoure  et  de  sang-froid.  Tombe  glorieusement  pour  la 
France  au  cours  d'un  combat  aerien  au  dessus  la  foret  Villers- 
Cotterets  le  8  juillet  1918.    Croix  de  guerre. 



Class  of  1913 

X  HE  exploit  in  which  Wilham  Vernon  Booth,  Jr.,  met  his 
death  has  been  described  in  the  history  of  the  Lafayette 
Flying  Corps  as  "certainly  one  of  the  finest  examples  of 
cold  daring  the  war  has  produced."  The  record  of  Booth's 
life  shows  it  to  have  been  a  natural  climax  of  all  that  had 
gone  before. 

He  was  born  at  Chicago,  October  8,  1889,  a  son  of  Wil- 
liam Vernon  Booth,  once  president  of  the  Booth  Fisheries 
Company,  and  Helen  (Lester)  Booth.  While  he  was  in 
college  his  family  moved  from  Chicago  to  New  York,  but 
nearly  all  his  preparation  for  college  was  made  at  South- 
borough,  Massachusetts,  where  he  attended  the  Fay 
School  before  entering  the  first  form  of  St.  Mark's  in  1903. 



There,  according  to  "St.  Mark's  School  in  the  War  against 
Germany,"  he  "took  a  distinguished  part  in  athletics, 
playing  for  two  years  on  the  football,  hockey,  and  base- 
ball teams,  and  being  made  captain  of  the  baseball  team 
in  his  sixth  form  year.  He  was  a  good  scholar  and  was 
appointed  a  monitor."  Still  more  significant  is  the  follow- 
ing statement  from  the  same  source;  "At  school,  Vernon 
Booth's  physical  build  could  not  account  for  his  efficiency 
in  athletics  and  apparent  immunity  from  injury.  Usually 
it  was  he  who  at  a  decisive  point  in  a  contest,  and  often  a 
discouraging  point,  applied  that  extra  ounce  of  fight 
which  neither  he  nor  his  companions  knew  existed  in  the 
team,  and  which  won  victory  or  staved  off  defeat.  The 
spirit,  stronger  than  the  body  and  stronger  than  pain,  was 
beyond  all  estimate  and  check;  the  ordinary  measures  of 
morale  and  courage  could  not  explain  it,  for  the  greater 
the  need,  the  more  surely  he  met  it.  And  in  the  class- 
room, shy,  quiet,  and  observant,  with  shining  eyes,  he 
made  and  maintained  high  rank  without  the  self-compla- 
cency which  so  often  attends  it,  assimilating  as  he  learned." 

Coming  to  Harvard  in  the  autumn  of  1909  and  graduat- 
ing with  his  class  in  1913,  he  continued  his  interest  in 
athletics  as  a  member  of  the  freshman  baseball  and  hockey 
teams,  and  soon  won  himself  the  nickname  of  "The 
Battler."  Later  he  became  manager  and  captain  of  the 
Varsity  golf  team.  He  was  also  a  member  of  the  1913 
finance  committee  in  his  sophomore  year,  and  joined  the 
Institute  of  1770,  D.K.E.,  Polo,  Kalumet,  Hasty  Pudding, 
and  A.D.  Clubs. 

Booth's  course  at  Harvard  was  followed  by  professional 
study  at  the  New  York  Law  School.    Upon  his  graduation 



there  he  entered  the  law  office  of  Piatt  and  Field  in  New 
York,  where  he  was  at  work  when  the  United  States  made 
its  declaration  of  war.  Booth  at  once  volunteered  for 
service  in  the  Army,  but,  because  he  was  under  weight 
and  height,  failed  of  acceptance.  Determined  upon  some 
form  of  military  service,  he  then  sought  the  American 
representative  of  the  Lafayette  Flying  Corps,  for  which  he 
was  tested  at  the  Newport  News  field,  with  the  result  that 
he  was  promptly  ordered  to  prepare  for  sailing  overseas. 
On  May  19,  1917,  he  sailed  from  New  York,  and  on  June  3 
enlisted,  at  Paris,  in  the  Lafayette  Flying  Corps.  With 
this  organization  he  remained  throughout  his  career, 
although  offered  a  commission  in  the  event  of  transferring 
to  the  American  Expeditionary  Forces. 

Booth  received  his  training  in  aviation  at  the  schools  of 
Avord,  Pau,  and  G.  D.  E.  (Plessis-Belleville) .  It  began 
June  19,  1917,  and  lasted  until  January  8,  1918,  when  he 
was  ordered  to  join  Escadrille  Spad  96  at  the  front,  and 
with  this  he  served  from  January  10  until  he  received  his 
fatal  injuries  on  June  15.  On  October  16  he  was  breveted 
pilote  (Caudron),  and  was  promoted  corporal,  October  17, 
sergeant  June  13.  His  service  at  the  front  was  continuous, 
except  for  a  leave,  during  which,  on  April  27,  he  was  married 
in  Paris  to  Miss  Ethel  Forgan  of  Chicago,  who  was  work- 
ing in  Y.  M.  C.  A.  canteens.  On  May  14  he  returned  to 
his  escadrille. 

A  few  of  his  letters  to  his  parents  contain  passages  illus- 
trating his  life  as  an  aviator. 



Pau,  November  26,  1917. 
Dear  Mother: 

Tomorrow  will  be  Thanksgiving  day  and  also  my  last  day 
at  any  school,  if  it  is  half  way  decent,  for  tomorrow  morning  I 
do  the  acrobatics  and  then  will  be  through,  for  they  have  cut 
out  the  last  two  classes  and  we  will  get  that  training  for  the  first 
two  months  with  the  escadrille.  It  is  the  new  system  and  I  think 
it  should  be  much  better.  The  acrobatics  consist  of  vrilles  —  a 
spinning  nose  dive  with  the  motor  out ;  renversements  —  a  method 
of  turning  by  pointing  the  machine  up,  flipping  it  over  on  the 
back  and  then  pulling  back  so  that  you  come  back  in  exactly 
the  same  line  in  which  you  came;  vertical  virages  —  another  way 
of  turning  by  snapping  the  machine  around  180  degree  corners; 
and  wing  slips  —  a  way  of  losing  altitude  very  quickly  and  very 
hard  to  follow,  by  reducing  the  motor  and  turning  the  machine 
on  its  side  so  there  is  no  supporting  surface.  They  say  the  sen- 
sations are  rather  unpleasant  at  first  until  you  get  used  to  them 
and  are  hard  to  do  correctly,  but  easy  enough  to  try  and  get  out 
of.  When  we  get  our  planes  at  the  escadrille  we  have  to  practise 
them  until  we  can  do  them  perfectly  —  here  we  only  learn  to  go 
through  the  motions  necessary  and  get  somewhat  used  to  them. 
So  I  shall  be  glad  when  it  is  dinner  time  tomorrow. 

The  American  colony  in  Pau  are  going  to  give  all  the  American 
pilots  a  big  T.  dinner.  The  flying  here  has  been  great  fun, 
bully  small,  fast  machines  that  are  well  looked  after,  but  the 
weather  has  been  very  cloudy.  Today  I  finished  val  de  grou'pe 
in  110  H.  P.  15  m.  Nieuport.  W^ent  up  the  river  right  over  the 
promenade  at  300  metres  as  the  clouds  were  low  as  far  as  the  base 
of  the  mountains,  then  saw  a  rift  and  went  up  through  it  and 
saw  the  peaks  of  the  mountains  for  the  first  time  since  I  have 
been  here.  At  1500  metres  it  was  a  beautiful  warm  sunny  day, 
with  a  mass  of  soft  white  clouds  below,  through  which  now  and 
then  I  could  see  the  ground  and  close  by  were  the  mountains 
sticking  up  through  the  clouds.  There  was  not  a  movement  in 
the  air  so  I  just  sat  there  and  took  it  all  in.    I  throttled  the  motor 



down  so  it  would  n't  climb,  let  go  the  stick  and  watched  the 
clouds  change  their  formations.  I  lost  the  machines  I  was  flying 
with  in  the  clouds  and  mists  below  and,  as  I  could  n't  see  any 
other  machine  up  there,  felt  absolutely  alone  in  the  world.  I 
could  judge  my  approximate  position  by  the  mountains,  sun, 
and  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  river,  so  did  not  worry  about 
getting  lost.  However,  it  got  lonesome  after  an  hour,  so  came 
down  and  began  to  dodge  the  clouds  again  as  I  had  to  stay  up 
two  hours  and  a  quarter  to  finish  up. 

A  couple  of  days  ago  we  had  great  sport  diving  at  horses,  cows, 
etc.,  in  the  fields  down  the  river.  We  cut  the  motors  and  then 
piqued  down  at  one  of  them,  trying  to  keep  the  crossed  front 
strut  wires  on  the  animal.  This  served  instead  of  the  sight 
which  we  get  later.  It  was  quite  hard  to  do  as  it  was  very  windy 
and  bumpy,  so  I  was  thrown  around  and  had  to  keep  correcting 
continually.  When  we  got  within  ten  or  fifteen  feet  we  flattened 
out,  put  on  the  motor  and  went  on  our  way  jumping  a  hedge, 
house,  or  row  of  trees  at  the  end  of  the  field.  When  we  tired 
of  that  we  got  down  about  ten  feet  over  the  river  and  tried  to 
follow  its  winding  course.  Many  times  we  could  n't  do  it  as  the 
turns  were  too  sharp,  so  had  to  pull  up  fast  so  as  to  clear  the 
trees  on  the  banks.  That  was  when  you  realized  the  speed,  as 
the  trees  were  a  green  streak  on  each  side  going  by  well  over  a 
100  miles  an  hour. 

I  get  forty-eight  hoiu-s  permission  in  Paris,  then  to  Plessis- 
Belleville  to  wait  to  be  assigned  —  two  to  three  weeks  probably, 
and  then  two  months'  practice  before  going  on  regular  patrol 

As  this  will  probably  reach  you  about  Christmas,  I  wish  you 
all  a  very  Merry  Christmas  and  wish  that  I  could  be  there. 

Hope  you  are  all  well,  I  am  fine, 

Much  love, 




February  1,  1918. 
Dear  Mother: 

The  weather  has  eased  up  and  the  past  week  has  been  like 
spring.  As  a  consequence  we  had  patrols  over  the  lines  every 
day,  and  a  few  days  ago  had  the  good  fortune  to  bring  down  a 
Boche  machine.  It  was  only  the  second  time,  very  far  within 
the  German  lines,  so  was  all  the  easier.  We  were  flying  in  for- 
mation, the  Lieutenant  ahead  as  Chef  de  Groupe,  Ferguson  and 
myself  just  behind  on  his  right  and  left  respectively,  and  another 
behind  us,  when,  as  we  approached  the  end  of  our  sector,  we 
saw  the  Boche  plane  about  2000  metres  below  us.  It  was  a 
large  bi-plane,  probably  a  Rumpler,  regulating  artillery.  The 
Chef  signaled  to  go  after  it,  so  down  we  went,  weaving  in  and 
out  trying  to  get  into  a  good  position  to  dive.  \Mien  he  was 
about  200  metres  over  it,  he  dove  and  opened  fire  shortly  after- 
ward. I  was  about  150  metres  behind,  so  dove  immediately. 
I  got  in  position,  which  happened  before  he  pulled  up.  After 
we  got  out  of  the  way,  I  opened  up  and  pulled  out  of  the  dive 
just  above  him  —  the  Boche.  W^e  then  looked  around  to  see 
what  had  happened  —  but  we  could  n't  have  hit  him  very  seri- 
ously, as  he  was  flying  all  right.  The  other  two  stayed  above  us 
to  protect  us  from  any  stray  Boche  who  might  have  come  unex- 
pectedly on  the  scene.  We  worked  around  again  for  position 
and  repeated,  this  time  with  better  luck  for  on  the  way  down  I 
saw  the  tracer  bullets  going  into  the  fusilage,  and  when  I  was 
quite  close  he  fell  over  into  a  vrille.  A  moment  after  we  saw 
him  crash  into  a  wood.  I  doubt  whether  or  not  it  will  be 
counted  officially  as  at  the  time  he  fell  he  was  eight  kilometres 
within  the  lines  and  only  eight  hundred  metres  high  so  that  the 
French  observers  probably  did  not  see  it. 

March  U,  1918. 
Dear  Father: 

Yesterday  was  quite  a  big  day  with  a  review  of  the  whole 
Groupe  de  Combat  by  General  Petain,  Commander-in-Chief  of 
the  French  Armies  in  France,  with  numerous  other  "big  bugs." 



He  looked  us  over  and  said  that  Ferguson  and  I  looked  like 
Frenchmen  and  that  we  could  all  stay  with  them  as  long  as  we 
liked,  so  now  all  the  talk  about  compulsory  transfers  should  be 
stopped  —  we  shall  stay  at  least  until  fall.  I  had  not  done  any 
flying  here  since  I  flew  out  from  Paris  until  yesterday  morning, 
as  my  machine  would  not  run.  We  finally  got  it  going,  and  I 
went  up  to  try  it  out.  It  seemed  all  right,  so  I  finished  with  a 
vrille.  When  I  came  out  I  found  some  of  the  wires  were  jump- 
ing around  like  a  skipping  rope  and  others  simply  waving  like 
wet  towels  in  the  wind. 

June  2,  1918. 
Dear  Mother: 

We  came  down  here,  as  I  last  wrote  you  that  we  would,  and 
and  today  we  are  moving  again.  In  fact  I  have  already  taken 
one  machine  down  and  am  back  for  my  own  which  is  having  a 
new  motor  put  in  and  will  not  be  ready  for  an  hour.  The  old 
one  was  a  corker,  but  it  had  so  much  work  they  would  not  let 
me  fly  it  any  more  for  fear  it  would  give  up  the  ghost  some  day 
over  the  lines.  But  the  last  couple  of  days  I  have  been  using 
a  new  man's  machine,  who  had  never  been  over  the  lines,  and 
although  only  180  H.  P.  it  went  very  well.  We  have  been  very 
busy  with  this  new  drive  and  have  had  a  lot  of  shooting  up  the 
troops,  which  is  the  best  sport  of  all.  The  cavalry  make  the 
biggest  fuss  and  make  rather  sporting  targets  when  they  dash 
across  the  fields,  while  a  herd  of  cows  are  no  fun,  they  just  stand, 
look  up  and  wonder  what  goes  on.  A  couple  of  days  ago  we 
made  that  mistake  as  they  were  in  an  orchard  and  we  could  not 
see  them  very  well.  Yesterday  I  had  a  little  show  all  my  own, 
when,  during  a  regular  patrol,  all  the  others  had  left  on  account 
of  some  kind  of  motor  trouble.  As  I  had  half  an  hour's  essence 
left,  I  decided  to  straff  the  Huns  on  my  own  account,  so  went 
down  looking  for  them.  The  lines  were  not  known  exactly,  as 
the  Huns  had  advanced  considerably  during  the  day.  I  looked 
over  three  columns  before  I  finally  found  a  Boche  outfit.  It 
happened  to  be  an  ammunition  train,  so  I  came  down  and  gave 



them  all  I  had,  I  saw  some  horses  and  several  Huns  fall  over  — 
the  rest  running  up  the  road  or  into  the  ditches  on  either  side. 
I  was  only  a  few  metres  above,  so  could  see  it  all  and  was  quite 
pleased  with  the  result.  . . .  The  advance  is  slowing  up  somewhat, 
and  I  hope  it  will  be  stopped  altogether  in  a  couple  of  days. 

Jnne  17,  1918. 
Dear  Father: 

A  few  days  ago  we  moved  again  and  from  the  present  look  of 

things  I  think  we  shall  probably  stay  for  some  time  as  we  can 

work  on  two  fronts  equally  well  from  here  and  they  will  be 

the  busy  ones  when  things  start  up  again.    There  is  one  peculiar 

thing  about  it  though  and  that  is,  I  can  look  up  any  time  and 

see  about  where is  working  and  yet  I  cannot  go  there.  .  .  . 

We  were  out  on  a  low  patrol  and  I  saw  a  Hun  observation  plane 

coming  up  the  lines  and  went  down  the  lines  to  have  a  whack 

at  him.     I  was  just  getting  around  to  get  into  position  to  get 

him  good  and  at  the  same  time  keep  out  of  his  fire  as  much  as 

possible,  when  my  motor  stopped.    We  were  not  very  high  at 

the  time,  but  I  had  some  wind  at  my  back  so  figured  for  an  open 

spot  in  the  woods,  the  only  one  in  sight  but  well  within  the  lines 

I  thought.     It  happened  the  Huns  had  advanced  a  couple  of 

kilometres  on  that  section  since  we  had  left,  so  the  lines  on  my 

map  were  wrong  —  and  when  I  was  only  one  hundred  metres 

up,  I  saw  their  front  line  trenches  in  front  of  me.    I  had  been 

fooling  with  the  menets  on  the  way  down  and  just  then,  as  luck 

would  have  it,  the  motor  gave  a  few  extra  coughs  which  enabled 

me  to  lengthen  my  pique  and  get  into  our  lines.     Just  in  front 

were  nothing  but  large  shell  holes  and  trees,  neither  of  which 

looked  very  inviting.     A  few  more  kicks  carried  me  over  them 

with  a  little  space  and  I  finally  landed  on  the  side  of  a  hill  between 

some  trees,  just  in  front  of  the  second  line  trenches.    It  did  n't 

take  me  long  to  climb  out,  taking  such  instruments  as  I  could 

grab  off  quickly  and  beat  it  for  cover.    I  finally  wandered  back  to 

division  headquarters  and  was  sent  back  to  rail-head  by  auto. 

That   night   the  Huns   advanced  further,  taking  the  ground 



where  the  machine  remained,  but  they  did  not  get  it,  for  I  left 
orders  to  burn  it  up  in  case  of  a  further  retreat.  The  lucky 
thing  about  it,  I  had  to  go  to  Paris  in  order  to  reach  the  esca- 
drille — so  had  an  afternoon  and  evening  with before  re- 

These  letters  afford  no  indication  of  Booth's  actual 
achievements  as  a  combatant  in  the  war,  nor  is  it  possible 
to  suggest  them  more  fully  than  by  saying  that  he  co- 
operated in  engagements  at  Amiens,  Montdidier,  Chemin 
des  Dames,  Compiegne,  and  Foret  de  Villers-Cotterets,  and 
that  he  was  officially  credited  with  the  destruction  of  two 
enemy  airplanes.  It  was  in  a  fight  between  seven  French 
and  eighteen  German  planes  that  this  "Battler"  fell  on 
June  25,  with  injuries  that  resulted  in  his  death  on  July  10 
in  the  Scottish  Women's  Hospital  at  Asnieres-sur-Oise  after 
he  had  undergone  the  amputation  of  one  of  his  legs.  The 
operation  was  performed  in  the  hope  of  stopping  the  spread 
of  the  poison  with  which  it  was  believed  that  he  had  been 
infected  by  an  explosive  bullet  fired  in  the  action.  His 
wife  was  with  him  when  he  died. 

The  circumstances  of  his  last  engagement  are  best 
described  in  a  paragraph  taken  from  "The  Lafayette 
Flying  Corps": 

On  June  25,  above  the  fighting  to  the  south  of  Soissons, 
Booth  was  engaged  in  bitter  combat  with  a  swarm  of  Fokkers. 
Hemmed  in,  outnumbered  and  maneuvering  desperately,  always 
on  the  offensive.  Booth's  machine  was  suddenly  set  on  fire  by 
an  incendiary  bullet,  and  at  the  same  instant  an  explosive  ball 
shattered  his  right  leg,  inflicting  a  terrible  wound.  Enveloped 
in  flames  and  in  an  agony  of  pain,  he  still  kept  his  head,  and 
after  a  straight  plunge  of  6000  feet  succeeded  in  putting  out 



the  fire.  But  by  now  the  motor  had  stopped  for  good,  forcing 
him  to  land  near  Longpont,  by  misfortune  at  a  point  exactly 
between  the  lines,  forty  yards  from  the  Germans  —  thirty  from 
the  French.  The  Germans  promptly  turned  rifles,  machine 
guns,  and  even  37  mm.  cannon  on  the  Spad,  but  in  spite  of  a 
storm  of  lead  and  bursting  shell,  severely  burned  and  dragging 
a  mangled  leg.  Booth  painfully  extricated  himself  from  his 
plane,  deliberately  set  fire  to  what  remained  of  it,  and  crawled  to 
the  French  lines.  In  the  hospital,  on  July  4,  this  splendid  act 
of  courage  was  rewarded  with  the  Medaille  Militaire,  and  on 
July  10  Booth  died  from  the  effects  of  his  wounds.  He  was  the 
best-loved  of  comrades  and  a  soldier  who  upheld  with  honor  the 
finest  traditions  of  his  country. 

The  terms  in  which  the  Medaille  Militaire  was  conferred 
upon  Booth  as  he  lay  in  the  hospital  were  these : 

Pilote  d'un  splendide  courage.  Au  cours  d'tm  combat  confre 
quatre  avians  ennemis  a  ete  grievement  blesse,  son  appareil  ay  ant 
pris  feu  en  Vair,  a  pu  grace  a  sa  presence  d'esprit  et  malgre  de 
fortes  brulures  eteindre  Vincendie  et  atterrir  normalement  entre  les 
lignes  a  quarante  metres  des  tranchees  ennemies.  A  incendie  son 
appareil  et  regagne  les  positions  franqaises  malgre  un  feu  violent 
des  canons  et  des  mitrailleuses. 

Les  nominations  ci-dessus  comportent  V attribution  de  la  Croix 
de  Guerre  avec  palme. 

Le  General  Commandant  en  Chef 


In  addition  to  this  the  Order  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 
was  awarded  to  him  on  July  27,  1918. 



Class  of  1917 

Olaudius  Ralph  Farnsworth  was  born  in  Provi' 
dence,  Rhode  Island,  March  25,  1895.  His  father,  John 
Prescott  Farnsworth,  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1881,  a 
descendant  of  Matthias  Farnsworth,  an  early  settler  of 
Groton,  Massachusetts,  was  a  prominent  manufacturer 
and  man  of  affairs  in  Providence,  a  trustee  of  the  Provi- 
dence Public  Library,  and  at  one  time  president  of  the 
Providence  Chamber  of  Commerce.  His  grandfather, 
Claudius  Buchanan  Farnsworth,  was  a  graduate  of  Har- 
vard, in  the  Class  of  1841.  His  mother  was  Margaret 
Cochrane  (Barbour)  Farnsworth. 

Ralph  Farnsworth,  one  of  the  three  sons  of  John  Pres- 
cott Farnsworth,  had  most  of  his  preparation  for  college 



at  the  Moses  Brown  School  in  Providence.  For  the  next 
to  the  last  of  his  years  at  school  he  attended  Phillips- 
Exeter  Academy.  Entering  Harvard  from  the  Moses 
Brown  School  in  the  autumn  of  1913,  he  acquitted  himself 
creditably  as  a  member  of  the  Class  of  1917,  with  which 
he  graduated.  But  for  defective  eyesight  he  would  have 
gratified  a  natural  liking  for  military  life  by  trying  to 
enter  West  Point.  As  it  was,  he  came  to  Harvard  with 
the  intention  of  preparing  himself  for  the  medical  profes- 
sion. In  his  junior  year  he  won  a  Harvard  College  Scholar- 
ship. He  took  an  active  interest  in  football  and  rowing, 
but  was  not  one  of  the  athletes  of  his  class.  He  belonged 
to  the  Pi  Eta  Society,  and  was  a  member  of  the  "show 
committee  "  in  his  senior  year.  He  also  joined  the  Harvard 

His  military  interest  expressed  itself,  moreover,  by  his 
attending  the  Plattsburg  camp  in  the  summer  of  1916, 
and  enlisting,  March  30,  1917,  in  Battery  A,  First  Massa- 
chusetts Field  Artillery.  With  this  organization,  which 
was  federahzed  July  25,  1917,  and  designated  Battery  A, 
101st  Field  Artillery,  26th  Division,  he  served  continu- 
ously until  his  death.  Promoted  private,  first  class,  in 
August,  he  sailed  for  France  with  his  regiment  in  Septem- 
ber, and  was  promoted  corporal  in  November. 

His  experiences  under  arms  were  those  of  his  regiment, 
with  engagements  in  the  Chemin  des  Dames  and  La  Reine 
sectors,  and  finally  at  Chateau-Thierry.  A  passage  from 
one  of  his  letters,  dated  April  7,  1918,  speaks  clearly  for 
the  spirit  in  which  his  service  was  rendered: 

It  is  well  that  you  have  come  to  realize  at  home  that  we  are 
in  for  a  long  struggle,  but  the  longer  I  am  here,  the  more  sacred 



our  cause  becomes.  I  am  not  trying  to  be  heroic  or  impressive 
when  I  say  that  we  are  the  crusaders  of  our  day.  We  are  any- 
thing but  heroic  or  impressive  in  appearance,  but  beneath  our 
often  unkempt  appearance,  our  undignified  slides  for  cover,  and 
our  very  human  fear  of  shot  and  shell,  I  know  there  is  the  spirit 
of  our  crusading  ancestors,  well  camouflaged,  it  is  true,  but 
there  nevertheless. 

In  a  later  letter  (June  14,  1918)  he  wrote: 

From  various  points  of  the  line  come  reports  of  various  Yan- 
kee activities,  and  I  know  what  my  own  comrades  are  doing 
here.  On  the  whole  I  think  we  can  honestly  feel  that  we  are 
beginning  to  stand  up  to  the  oar  in  our  share,  and  that  we  are 
becoming  more  deserving  of  the  term  "Ally."  Along  with  a  deep 
hatred  of  the  Boche  has  come  the  conviction  that  we  are  in  to  a 
finish,  that  an  existence  without  victory  is  intolerable. 

In  the  Triennial  Report  of  the  Class  of  1917,  the  circum- 
stances of  Farnsworth's  death  in  action  at  Montreuil-aux- 
Leons,  near  Chateau-Thierry,  July  12,  1918,  are  related 
as  follows: 

It  seems  that  his  gun  had  been  fired  more  than  any  other,  and 
a  comrade  quotes  his  own  words,  "Its  life  was  about  ended." 
At  3  A.M.  on  the  twelfth  came  an  order  to  put  down  a  barrage. 
Overheated  by  the  rapid  fire,  his  piece  made  a  shell  explode  pre- 
maturely. The  gun  corporal  had  already  been  killed,  and  Farns- 
worth,  although  acting  as  sergeant  and  chief  of  section,  was 
loading  and  sighting  the  gun.  He  had  one  other  man  only  with 
him  who  pulled  the  lanyard.  Ralph  was  leaning  over  to  pick  up 
a  shell  to  reload  when  the  explosion  came.  It  was  at  the  edge  of 
the  woods  near  Montreuil,  and  his  body  was  buried  at  Bezu-le- 

By  a  later  interment  the  body  of  Ralph  Farnsworth  was 
placed  in  the  Swan  Point  Cemetery  at  Providence,  where 
his  father  and  mother  are  buried. 



"Ralph,"  wrote  his  classmate  J.  W.  D.  Seymour  in  the 
1917  Triennial  Report,  "had  been  a  straightforward  man's 
man  always.  He  gave  the  best  that  was  in  him  to  any 
cause  he  felt  to  be  right,  and  he  never  hesitated  to  give 
himself  wholly  and  without  reservations.  He  is  missed 
by  many  who  called  him  friend." 



Class  of  1919 

i  T  is  hardlv  more  necessary  to  inform  the  readers  of  this 
book  that  Theodore  Roosevelt,  the  father  of  Quentin 
Roosevelt,  was  a  member  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1880 
than  that  he  was  President  of  the  United  States.  His 
youngest  child,  Quentin,  was  born  to  him  and  his  wife, 
Edith  Kermit  (Carow)  Roosevelt,  at  Washington,  No- 
vember 19,  1897,  while  he  was  serving  as  Assistant  Secre- 
tary of  the  Navy  in  the  McKinley  administration.  Within 
six  months  came  the  Spanish  War,  with  its  effects  upon 
the  fortunes  of  Theodore  Roosevelt,  and  consequently  on 
those  of  his  family,  symbolized  in  the  fact  that  the  title  of 
"Colonel,"  won  at  that  time,  remained  to  the  end  of  his 
life  the  name  by  which  he  was  most  commonly  known. 



The  background  of  that  life,  at  Washington  and  else- 
where, has  been  for  more  than  twenty  years  so  familiar  an 
object  of  interest  and  knowledge  to  Americans  in  general 
that  it  would  be  superfluous  here  to  do  more  than  suggest 
it,  especially  since  the  publication  of  Theodore  Roose- 
velt's "Letters  to  his  Children"  —  a  book  in  which  the 
youngest  of  the  family,  "Blessed  Quenty-Quee,"  inevi- 
tably appears  with  a  peculiar  distinctness:  the  conditions 
of  Quentin  Roosevelt's  boyhood  call  for  no  detailed  recital. 
Yet  the  newspapers  at  the  time  of  his  death  brought 
forth  certain  illustrations  of  his  boyish  characteristics 
which  may  be  repeated  here.  One  of  them  was  in  the 
form  of  a  statement  by  the  principal  of  the  Peter  Force 
Public  School  in  Washington,  which  —  besides  the  Epis- 
copal High  School  at  Alexandria,  Virginia  —  Quentin 
Roosevelt  attended  before  leaving  home  to  enter  Groton 
School.  "Quentin's  leading  characteristic,"  said  this 
teacher,  "was  determination  to  succeed  in  anything. 
Alwavs  at  the  forefront  in  everv  movement  in  the  school, 
he  was  the  liveliest  kind  of  boy,  showing  even  in  those 
early  years  the  qualities  which  made  his  father  what  he  is. 
He  was  uncommonly  bright  intellectually,  and  was  always 
at  the  head  of  any  athletic  movement  in  the  school."  His 
love  of  nature  and  of  animals,  warmly  encouraged  by  his 
father,  accounted  for  his  menagerie  of  living  pets  at  the 
White  House.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  read  about  in  the 
news  of  Washington.  So  was  the  story  of  the  pony  which 
he  felt  that  his  brother  Archie,  sick  with  diphtheria,  must 
see  if  he  was  to  recover.  Smuggling  the  little  beast  into 
the  White  House  elevator  he  succeeded  —  if  the  legend 
be  true  —  in  conveying  him  to  an  upper  bedroom  and 



exhibiting  him  to  his  dehghted  brother.  There  was  even 
a  rumor  that  his  father  might  have  thwarted  the  plan,  but 
did  not.  However  that  may  be,  a  hkeable  flavor  is  found 
in  another  story  of  Quentin  Roosevelt,  asked  in  his  turn 
at  school  to  state  the  occupation  of  his  father,  and  declar- 
ing, "My  father's  just  it."  An  indication  of  his  boyish 
quality,  with  a  prophetic  suggestion  of  the  future,  ap- 
pears, besides,  in  a  letter  he  wrote  from  Europe,  in  the 
summer  holiday  before  his  twelfth  birthday,  telling  a 
Washington  schoolmate  of  the  delight  he  found  in  watch- 
ing the  flight  of  aeroplanes  at  Rheims. 

From  the  day  schools  in  and  near  Washington,  the  boy 
proceeded  to  Groton  School,  at  which  he  graduated  in 
1915.  His  contributions  to  the  school  paper,  the  Grolon- 
ian,  revealed  a  marked  quality  of  imagination,  upon  which 
the  war  in  Europe,  begun  before  he  entered  college,  took 
a  strong  hold.  An  injury  to  his  back,  received  during  one 
of  his  summer  camping  and  hunting  trips  in  the  West, 
handicapped  his  participation  in  athletic  sports.  One  of 
the  consequences  may  have  been  a  fuller  development  in 
other  directions.  So,  at  least,  the  following  passage  from 
a  newspaper  "tribute"  to  Quentin  Roosevelt,  written  im- 
mediately after  his  death  by  the  Rev.  Endicott  Peabody, 
Rector  of  Groton  School,  leads  one  to  infer: 

He  was  an  eager  and  intelligent  reader,  familiar  with  many 
branches  of  literature.  When  he  was  consigned  to  bed,  as  he 
used  to  be  occasionally  on  account  of  his  back,  he  would  appear 
at  the  infirmary  with  an  armful  of  books  —  standard  works,  or 
the  writings  of  the  real  authors  of  the  day.  The  power  of  con- 
centration, a  faculty  possessed  by  many  members  of  the  Roose- 
velt family  —  which  accounts  for  their  enthusiasm  and  ability 



to  do  things  —  was  highly  developed  in  Quentin.  He  took  much 
interest  in  printing,  and  spent  many  hours  in  the  school  press, 
acquiring  a  skill  which  would  have  qualified  him  without 
further  preparation  for  the  position  of  a  journeyman  printer. 
It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  was  often  found  sitting  on 
a  stool  by  the  side  of  a  clattering  monotype  machine  which 
was  noisily  stamping  out  its  letters,  and  as  he  gave  himself  up 
completely  to  the  enjoyment  of  Browning  or  some  other  favorite 
author,  he  had  an  ear  open  to  the  slightest  variation  of  the  com- 
plex apparatus. 

Socially  he  was  a  most  agreeable  companion  for  persons  of  all 
ages,  for  he  had  been  much  with  his  parents  as  their  comrade  as 
well  as  with  his  contemporaries.  His  sense  of  humor  was  keen 
and  unfailing,  and  always  of  a  kindly  nature.  He  was  mentally 
alert,  sympathetic,  interested  in  many  persons  and  all  kinds  of 
things.    He  was  a  friend  who  did  not  forget. 

Entering  Harvard  in  the  autumn  of  1915,  Quentin 
Roosevelt  remained  in  college  only  until  the  United  States 
entered  the  war.  In  his  freshman  year  he  was  manager  of 
the  Gore  Hall  and  1919  interclass  football  teams.  He 
served  on  his  class  entertainment  committee  and  in  the 
Harvard  Regiment.  In  the  summer  of  1916  he  attended 
the  Officers'  Training  Camp  at  Plattsburg.  He  belonged 
to  the  Institute  of  1770,  D.  K.  E.,  Hasty  Pudding,  and 
Groton  School  Clubs.  It  was  not  a  time  in  college  when 
even  the  most  studious  w^ere  at  their  best  in  scholarship. 
At  a  freshman  midyear  examination  in  mathematics, 
Quentin  Roosevelt,  suffering  from  grippe,  was  more  than 
commonly  below  par;  but  the  verses  which  he  wrote  at 
the  end  of  his  "blue  book"  seemed  to  his  examiner,  Pro- 
fessor E.  V.  Huntington,  worth  sending  to  Colonel  Roose- 
velt as  an  indication  of  something  besides  mathematical 



ability  in  his  son.     They  will  serve  a  kindred  purpose 


Ode  to  a  Math  A  Exam 

"If  it  be  not  fair  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  it  be?" 


How  can  I  work  when  my  brain  is  whirling? 
What  can  I  do  if  I  've  got  the  grippe? 
Why  make  a  bluff  at  a  knowledge  that 's  lacking? 
What  is  the  use  if  I  don't  give  a  rip? 


Cosine  and  tangent,  cotangent,  abscissa, 

Dance  like  dry  leaves  through  my  sneeze-shattered  head, 

Square  root  of  a-  plus  hr  plus  A:' 

Gibber  and  grin  in  the  questions  I  've  read. 


Self-centered  circles  and  polar  coordinates. 
Triangles  twisted  and  octagons  wild, 
Loci  whose  weirdness  defies  all  description, 
Mountains  of  zeros  all  carefully  piled. 


Still  I  plod  on  in  a  dull  desperation. 

Head  aching  dismally,  ready  to  sip 

Goblets  of  strychnine  or  morphine  or  vitriol  — 

How  can  I  work  when  I  've  got  the  grippe? 

On  the  entrance  of  the  United  States  into  the  war, 
Quentin  Roosevelt  sought  and  obtained  his  father's  per- 
mission to  enlist  in  the  aviation  service,  for  which,  both 
in  temperament  and  through  the  possession  of  a  strong 
mechanical  sense,  he  seemed  peculiarly  qualified.  The 
injury  to  his  back,  which  might  well  have  hindered  other 



military  employment,  was  not  prohibitive  here.  In  one 
of  the  letters  contained  in  "Quentin  Roosevelt:  A  Sketch 
with  Letters,"^  edited  by  Kermit  Roosevelt,  from  which 
other  passages  will  be  quoted  in  this  memoir,  his  light- 
hearted  dealing  with  the  processes  of  enlistment  is  char- 
acteristically described. 

I  trotted  down  to  the  War  Department,  to  start  in  on  a 
complicated  game  of  catch  as  catch  can  with  the  Aviation  au- 
thorities. Their  policy  is  one  of  mystery.  You  ask  for  an  ap- 
plication whereupon  a  little  colored  "pusson"  takes  you  in  tow 
through  some  twenty  miles  of  stairs  to  an  equally  little  white 
man  who  gives  you  a  blank.  The  rest  of  your  day  is  spent  in 
taking  that  little  blank  for  visits  to  various  dens  in  the  building. 

Next  comes  your  physical  exam,  over  which  a  hypochondriac 
with  the  darkest  views  of  his  fellow-men  presides.  After  two 
hours  of  a  twentieth-century  refinement  of  the  inquisition  you 
are  pronounced  fit,  and  travel  on  again  for  your  mental  test. 
The  presiding  deity  there  is  a  gentleman  who  feels  like  David 
—  or  was  it  Isaiah  —  that  all  men  are  liars.  And  the  questions: 
"What  is  the  average  age  of  the  Dodo?"  the  correct  answer 
should  be  37.    "What  is  the  average  sex?"  but  to  go  on. 

It  really  did  take  me  two  days  to  get  by  all  the  red  tape,  and 
apparently  I  was  miraculously  lucky  at  that. 

His  enlistment  as  private,  first  class.  Aviation  Section, 
Signal  Corps,  was  achieved  April  '27,  1917.  He  was  im- 
mediately detailed  to  Mineola,  Long  Island,  and  commis- 
sioned first  lieutenant.  On  July  23,  in  company  with  his 
Groton  and  Harvard  classmate,  Hamilton  Coolidge,  he 
sailed  for  France  in  the  first  detachment  of  American 
aviators  ordered  overseas.  His  external  experiences  in 
France  may  be  summarized  in  a  list  of  his  successive  as- 
1  Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.    1921. 



signments :  In  August  he  was  attached  to  the  air  service 
headquarters  in  Paris;  in  October  was  detailed  as  in- 
structor to  the  3d  Aviation  Instruction  Centre  at  Issoudun; 
on  February  28,  1918,  to  the  Aerial  Gunnery  School  at 
Cazaux;  in  March  he  returned  to  Issoudun  Instruction 
Centre;  in  June  was  detailed  to  the  1st  Army  Acceptance 
Park  at  Orly;  and  on  June  15  was  assigned  to  the  95th 
Pursuit  Squadron,  1st  Pursuit  Group.  While  attached  to 
this  squadron  he  was  killed  in  action  near  Chamery,  July 
14,  1918,  having  cooperated  in  engagements  in  the  Toul 
and  Marne-Aisne  sectors,  with  official  credit  for  the  de- 
struction of  one  enemy  airplane. 

In  all  his  experience  preceding  the  final  month  at  the 
front  he  acquitted  himself  admirably  as  an  instructor  and 
a  supply  officer,  and  won  the  affection  and  respect  both 
of  pupils  and  of  fellow-officers.  His  energy  and  resource 
in  the  securing  of  supplies  were  quite  exceptional.  A 
characteristic  story  was  told  in  the  summer  of  Quentin 
Roosevelt's  death  by  President  Crawford  of  Allegheny  Col- 
lege, recently  returned  from  Y.  M.  C.  A.  training  work 
overseas.  He  reported  a  meeting  in  the  preceding  winter 
with  the  young  officer,  to  whom  he  said,  "Lieutenant,  there 
are  large  numbers  of  Americans  who  are  very  proud  of  the 
way  the  four  sons  of  Theodore  Roosevelt  are  acquitting 
themselves  in  this  war";  and  added,  "I  shall  never  forget 
how  his  face  lighted  up  as  he  made  reply,  'Well,  you  know 
it's  rather  up  to  us  to  practise  what  Father  preaches.'" 
Throughout  this  practice  there  was,  in  addition  to  vigorous 
action,  an  abundance  of  thought  and  feeling,  of  which  a 
full  record  is  to  be  found  in  the  "Sketch  with  Letters,"  ^ 

1  From  the  same  volume  many  details  of  this  memoir  are  also  taken. 



already  mentioned.  From  this  volume  a  few  significant 
passages  are  assembled  in  the  following  pages.  They  rep- 
resent indeed  both  action  and  the  sentiment  of  high- 
spirited  youth  —  action  the  more  remarkable  because 
accomplished  in  the  face  of  a  physical  handicap  which  led 
Quentin  Roosevelt  to  write  in  one  of  his  first  letters  from 
France,  disappointed  in  the  hope  of  going  early  to  the 
front:  "I  wanted  to  get  started  flying,  and  have  it  over 
with.    I  know  my  back  would  n't  last  very  long." 

On  August  22  he  wrote  of  two  motor-cycle  smashups  in 
which  he  was  hurt  on  each  of  two  successive  days.    But 

there  was  soon  another  story  to  tell: 

August  26, 1917. 

Today  I  was  at  Bourges  and  had  my  lunch  at  a  queer  little 
tavern,  black  with  age,  that  lies  in  the  corner  of  an  old  castle 
wall.  Over  the  door-way  hangs  a  faded  sign,  Aux  trois  raisins 
noirs,  and  up  by  the  wall  runs  a  little,  crooked  alley,  half  cob- 
blestone, half  steps,  that  is  called  Rue  Cassecou.  I  know  you 
would  have  loved  it,  —  and  Madame  who  stands  at  your  table, 
red-cheeked  and  with  the  white  cap  that  the  peasant  women 
wear,  while  Monsieur  le  proprietaire  cooks  the  omelet.  I  took 
an  hour  off  from  my  work,  for  there  were  places  that  cried  for 
exploration,  —  narrow  winding  streets  that  might  lead  any- 
where, and  finally  did  bring  me  to  the  cathedral.  It  has  one 
square  tower,  but  all  around  the  walls  are  buttressed,  like  those 
in  Notre  Dame.  It  is  surrounded  by  a  cluster  of  crooked  little 
streets,  whose  houses  seem  as  grey  and  ancient  as  the  gargoyles 
on  the  tower.  I  went  in,  for  there  was  no  service.  Once  inside 
it  seemed  like  another  world.  There  was  quiet  so  deep  that  I 
could  hear  the  patter  of  the  sacristan's  feet  as  he  came  toward 
me,  and  the  whispers  of  two  old  peasant  women  who  knelt  at 
a  little  shrine  in  the  wall.  It  is  like  Chartres,  for  as  you  come  in 
you  see  only  the  sombre  gloom  of  the  vaulted  arches,  and  then 
as  you  pass  on  you  look  back  on  the  glory  of  a  great  rose  window. 



There  was  one  window  —  a  virgin  with  a  veil  —  before  whom 
candles  were  lit,  —  that  was  so  lovely  that  I  burnt  before  her  a 

I  shall  be  very  glad  to  get  any  books  that  you  can  send  me. 
At  the  moment  my  library  consists  of  the  collected  works  of 
Gaston  Leblanc,  father  of  Arsene  Lupin,  and  the  "Pageant  of 
English  Poetry,"  and  "The  Wind  in  the  Willows."  .  .  . 

I  wonder  if  I  ever  told  you  my  pet  prayer,  —  almost  the  only 
one  that  I  care  for.  It  was  written,  I  think,  by  Bishop  Potter, 
"O  Lord,  protect  us  all  the  day  long  of  our  troublous  life  in 
earth,  until  the  shadows  lengthen  and  the  evening  comes,  and 
the  busy  world  is  hushed,  the  fever  of  life  is  over,  and  our  work 
is  done.  Then  in  Thy  mercy  grant  us  a  safe  lodging  and  peace 
at  the  last,  through  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord."  I  've  always  loved 
it,  and  now,  when  life  is  hard,  and  all  that  is  dearest  to  me  is 
far  away,  it  is  a  comfort  to  think  that  sometime  all  this  will  be 
past,  and  that  we  will  have  peace. 

December  8,  1917. 
These  little  fast  machines  are  delightful.     You  feel  so  at 
home  in  them,  for  there  is  just  room  in  the  cockpit  for  you  and 
your  controls,  and  not  an  inch  more.     And  then  they're  so 
quick  to  act.  .  .  . 

It's  frightfully  cold,  now,  though.  Even  in  my  teddy-bear, 
—  that 's  what  they  call  those  aviator  suits,  —  I  freeze  pretty 
generally,  if  I  try  any  ceiling  work.  If  it's  freezing  down  be- 
low it  is  some  cold  up  about  fifteen  thousand.  Aviation  has 
considerably  altered  my  views  on  religion.  I  don't  see  how  the 
angels  stand  it.  Do  you  remember  that  delightful  grey  mufiler 
you  made  me?  It's  very  soft, — either  Angora  or  camel's  hair, 
I  think,  —  and  is  now  doing  yeoman  duty  bridging  the  gap 
between  the  top  of  my  suit  and  the  bottom  of  my  helmet.  I 
think  it  is  bringing  me  luck,  too,  for  I  am  flying  much  better, 
now  that  I  wear  it  every  day.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  wearing 
just  about  everything  movable  'round  my  room  now,  and  expect 
to  for  the  next  four  months  or  so. 



I  had  an  exciting  time  two  weeks  ago  with  a  plane.  I  was 
taking  off,  and  had  just  got  my  wheels  clear  when  a  bit  of  mud 
got  thrown  against  the  propeller  and  broke  it.  One  of  the  pieces 
went  through  the  gasoline  tank  and  before  the  wheels  were 
really  down  on  the  ground  again,  or  before  I  even  had  a  chance 
to  cut  the  switch,  the  whole  thing  was  in  flames.  I  made  a  wild 
snatch  at  my  safety  belt,  got  it  undone,  and  slid  out  of  the  plane 
on  the  doublequick  time.  It  can't  have  taken  me  more  than 
thirty  seconds,  and  yet  when  I  got  out,  my  boots  and  pant  legs 
were  on  fire. 

[Written  while  recovering  from  a  mild  attach  of  pneumonia] 

December  16. 

I  have  just  started  to  really  convalesce,  and  am  being  allowed 
to  read  and  write  again.  I  was  really  quite  sick  for  a  while,  a 
good  deal  sicker  than  I  thought  I  was,  and  so,  as  soon  as  my 
temperature  began  to  go  down  again  I  thought  I  was  good  for 
letter  writing  and  reading.  The  medico  sat  on  that  scheme, 
though,  so  today  is  my  first  day  of  doing  anything  at  all  for 
ten  days.  I  am  to  be  kept  in  bed  here  until  I  am  well  enough 
to  make  the  trip  safely,  and  then  am  to  be  sent  up  for  a  two 
weeks'  sick  leave,  when  I  shall  see  Eleanor  in  Paris,  and  get 
all  fixed  up  again. 

We  have  now  got  a  real  man-size  organization  over  here  now, 
and  it  has  struck  our  school  down  here,  for  we  now  have  my  old 
Mineola  K.  O.  He  has  made  the  most  tremendous  difference 
to  the  place.  .  .  . 

The  Colonel,  when  he  put  me  in  command,  told  me  I  was  to 
try  and  get  things  straightened  out  as  far  as  possible,  and  then 
make  a  detailed  report  on  the  state  of  things.  I  started  in  and 
found  I  was  up  against  a  most  tremendous  job.  The  cadets 
had  no  organization  at  all.  They  were  being  used  for  guard  duty 
and  nothing  else,  and  there  is  nothing  more  demoralizing  for  a 
lot  of  men  than  doing  guard  under  frightful  conditions,  and 
nothing  else.  I  started  in,  and  after  two  days  sent  in  a  report 
as  long  as  a  presidential  message,  asking  that  more  enlisted  men 



be  detailed  to  relieve  the  guard,  that  arrangements  be  made  to 
ship  off  cadets  to  preliminary  schools  if  possible,  and  that  if 
there  were  any  vacancies  for  non-flying  commissions  in  the  air 
service,  they  be  issued  to  cadets  on  a  competitive  examination. 
Then  I  got  together  the  officers,  and  picked  out  six  assistants 
who  I  knew  would  work  and  were  good  fellows,  and  arranged 
that  the  seven  of  us  be  excused  from  regular  flying  formations. 
Thus  we  could  work  at  the  cadets  and  tuck  in  our  flying  when- 
ever we  had  a  spare  moment.    Then  we  divided  them  up  into 
organizations  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  and  started  to  lick  them 
into  some  sort  of  military  shape.     Outside  of  the  non-fliers,  I 
now  have  one  hundred  and  fifty  fliers,  and  twenty  navy  fliers  — 
known  unofficially  as  the  flying  fish  —  and  we  have  got  them 
working  out  fairly  well,  though  it's  a  pretty  unsatisfactory  sit- 
uation at  best.    I  know  if  I  were  a  cadet  I  should  feel  justified  in 
kicking  if,  after  being  enlisted  because  I  had  a  college  educa- 
tion and  was  recommended  by  all  sorts  of  people  as  good  avia- 
tion material,  I  was  used  as  a  guard  for  an  aviation  camp  with 
the  prospect  of  flying  in  four  or  five  months. 

The  doctor  has  come  in  and  ordered  me  to  lie  down  again, 
so  I  must  stop.  I  have  been  a  perfect  pig  about  not  writing 
more,  and  from  now  on  you  will  see  a  vast  change  in  the  news 
from  me,  for  I  have  loved  your  letters.  The  trouble  is  that 
writing  home  makes  me  get  gloomy,  for  then  you  start  looking 
at  the  war  as  a  whole,  —  an  impossible  system.  I  have  given 
it  up  entirely,  and  take  it  day  by  day.  The  only  really  satis- 
factory thing  is  that  flying  is  wonderful  fun  on  these  new  ma- 
chines. I  wish  you  could  see  them.  We  can  do  stunts  that  you 
would  think  were  impossible  after  watching  a  Curtis  wallow 
along  through  the  air. 

January  29, 1918. 

...  I  have  been  having  a  continual  fight  with  the  doctors, 

though,  and  incidentally  with  myself.   The  trouble  is  that  I  have 

been  getting  in  so  much  flying  lately  that  I  am  tired  out  most  of 

the  time.    The  net  result  was  that  I  collected  another  cough,  as 



my  lung  was  n't  quite  fixed  up.  I  had  been  feeling  rather  poorly, 
but  I  was  pretty  anxious  to  get  my  flying  done,  so  I  was  keep- 
ing on.  Then  today  I  dropped  over  to  the  main  camp  to  see 
Ham,  and  there  was  caught  by  Major  Goldthwaite.  The  first 
thing  he  decided,  after  looking  me  over,  was  that  I  had  measles, 
because  I  had  a  cold,  and  a  temp,  and  there  was  a  suspicious 
rash  on  me.  I  finally  persuaded  him  out  of  that,  and  then  he 
turned  on  the  other  tack,  and  said  that  my  vitality  was  low, 
and  that  I  was  very  likely  to  get  something  if  I  did  n't  look  out, 
and  ended  with  orders  for  me  to  go  on  light  duty,  and  do  no 
work  for  a  week.  I  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  about  it, 
for  I  certainly  can't  quit  flying  for  a  week  right  now,  when  I  am 
finishing  up.  In  the  first  place,  they  are  getting  ready  to  send 
a  couple  of  squadrons  up  within  a  reasonably  short  time,  and  I 
am  going  to  have  a  hard  enough  time  anyway  trying  to  get  my- 
self a  place  in  one  of  them.  I  think  I  shall  wait  and  see  how 
things  turn  out. 

In  the  meantime,  I  am  going  to  bed  at  the  noble  hour  of 
eight-thirty,  which  means  that  there  won't  be  very  much  more 
to  this  letter. 

February  21,  1918. 

I'm  at  the  moment  indulging  in  the  not  over-satisfactory 
feeling  of  knowing  that  I  've  done  what  I  ought  to  have  done, 
even  though  it  was  n't  what  was  pleasantest.  I  was  given  the 
chance  of  being  permanently  —  that  is  for  the  next  three 
months  —  stationed  at  Paris,  to  deliver  planes  to  the  various 
depots.  You  see,  the  heart  of  the  aeroplane  industry  is  Paris, 
— for  all  the  big  factories  are  there.  Consequently,  we  have 
American  testers,  who  receive  the  planes,  test  them,  and  then 
accept  or  reject  them.  If  they  are  accepted  they  have  to  be 
flown  to  their  various  destinations.  I  was  to  be  in  charge  of 
that  particular  branch,  and  to  arrange  for  the  deliveries.  It 
would  be  wonderful  fun,  of  course,  for  I'd  be  flying  all  over 
France  —  out  to  the  front  as  well  as  to  the  various  schools  be- 
hind the  lines.    There  would  be  a  certain  amount  of  good  ex- 



perience  in  it,  too,  but  the  trouble  is,  it 's  a  job  for  a  man  back 
from  the  front  for  a  rest,  —  or  one  who 's  had  a  bad  crash  and 
lost  his  nerve.  It 's  no  occupation  for  me  who  have  never  been 
to  the  front.  And  so  I  turned  it  down,  and  I've  been  thinking, 
rather  regretfully,  of  the  good  times  I  might  have  had  in  Paris. 
I  would  like  to  get  a  job  testing,  though,  for  I  think  that  is 
valuable  work.  I  don't  think  there's  much  chance  of  that.  A 
tester  is  never  an  emhusqiie,  for,  after  all,  you  can't  call  a  man 
a  slacker  whose  job  is  testing  planes  to  see  if  they're  strong 
enough,  and  well  built  enough  to  stand  service.  Besides,  a 
tester  gets  wonderful  flying  experience,  for  he  flies  all  kinds  of 
machines,  and  in  case  he  gets  a  machine  that  is  what  the  French 
call  nialregle,  he  has  a  slight  sample  of  what  flying  at  the  front 
may  be  like  with  part  of  your  controlling  surfaces  shot  away. 

So  I  am  still  in  my  old  work  here,  and  having  a  rather  amus- 
ing time,  for  I  am  not  exactly  sure  what  I  am.  I  feel  a  little 
like  the  song,  "Am  I  the  Governor-General,  or  a  hobo?"  —  for 
no  one,  least  of  all  headquarters,  can  make  out  just  what  my 
status  is.  I  am  hanging  on  like  grim  death,  until  I  can  get  sent 
out  to  the  front.  Once  I  have  had  my  three  weeks  or  so  with 
the  French  or  English,  I  will  have  some  sort  of  a  foundation 
to  base  on,  but  till  then,  I  '11  probably  remain  an  official  mystery. 

In  the  meantime,  I  am  getting  in  all  kinds  of  flying,  and  I 
think  accomplishing  a  certain  amount  in  the  line  of  training  the 
new  men  at  the  same  time.  Yesterday  I  took  a  group  of  ten  off 
for  a  reconnaissance.  They  all  had  their  maps,  and  the  object 
was  to  make  them  keep  formation  and  at  the  same  time  make 
out  from  the  map  where  they  are  going.  It 's  good  practice  for 
them,  but  by  way  of  being  dull  for  me,  —  so  I  thought  I  'd  liven 
it  up  by  doing  a  couple  of  virages  d  la  verticale  and  generally 
fooling  round  the  sky.  I  did  that  for  about  five  minutes  — 
always  keeping  the  general  direction  I  was  going,  but  more  or 
less  wagging  my  tail  en  route  —  and  then  looked  around  for  the 
formation,  which  should  have  been  following  above  in  two  nice 
"V's"  of  five.    Instead,  they  were  scattered  all  over  the  land- 



scape  like  flies.  1  stopped  doing  everything  at  that,  and  flew 
in  a  straight  line,  so  that  gradually  they  formed  up  again.  Then 
when  I  got  back  I  asked  what  was  the  matter,  and  found  that 
they  had  tried  to  follow  my  movements.  Of  course,  it's  ab- 
solutely impossible,  in  formation,  to  do  anything  like  that, 
—  and  I  told  them  so.  I  've  also  been  polishing  up  my  acrobacy 
a  good  bit  lately,  so  that  I  can  do  it  without  thinking. 

February  23,  1918. 
Not  much  news  this  time,  except  one  rather  sad  bit.  Al 
Sturtevant  has  been  shot  down.^  I  heard  it  from  Bob  Lovett. 
He  was  patrolling,  doing  seaplane  work,  when  he  had  the  bad 
luck  to  run  into  a  squadron  of  Boche  planes,  out  on  some  sort 
of  reconnaissance.  Of  course  he  did  n't  have  a  chance.  They 
shot  him  down  —  so  thoroughly  that  even  the  plane  was  totally 
destroyed  and  sank.  Poor  Al,  —  he 's  the  first  of  that  bunch 
whom  we  knew  and  played  round  with  that  is  gone.  Still,  — 
there's  no  better  way,  —  if  one  has  got  to  die.  It  solves  things 
so  easily,  for  you've  nothing  to  worry  about,  and  even  the 
people  whom  you  leave  have  the  great  comfort  of  knowing  how 
you  died.  It's  really  very  fine,  the  way  he  went,  fighting  hope- 
lessly, against  enormous  odds,  —  and  then  thirty  seconds  of 
horror  and  it 's  all  over,  —  for  they  say  that  on  the  average  it 's 
all  over  in  that  length  of  time,  after  a  plane 's  been  hit. 

March  30,  1918. 
I  had  a  most  unpleasant  time  of  it  just  at  the  end,  for  I  was 
really  scared,  and  it's  the  only  time  I  have  been,  in  the  air. 
We  were  just  about  five  miles  from  here,  and  I  was  getting  ready 
to  nose  her  down  and  come  through  the  clouds  to  land  when  for 
some  unknown  reason  I  began  to  feel  faint  and  dizzj'.  I  'm  free 
to  confess  that  I  was  scared,  good  and  scared.  However  there 
was  nothing  to  do  except  trust  to  luck,  so  I  nosed  her  down,  and 
went  for  the  landing.  As  luck  would  have  it,  I  happened  to 
have  just  hit  it  rightly,  and  I  came  in  on  that  glide  with  only  a 

1  See  Vol.  II,  p.  256. 


couple  of  S's  to  slow  me  up.    I  was  mighty  glad,  though,  when 
I  got  on  to  good,  solid  ground  again. 

May  i,  1918. 
It 's  been  perfect  ages  since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  and  I  've  got 
a  variety  of  reasons  for  not  having  done  so.  The  one  real  one 
is  that  I  had  one  hand  laid  up  in  an  accident  and  aside  from 
that  have  n't  been  feeling  decently  for  quite  a  while  now.  It 
started  a  little  while  after  I  got  back  from  Cazaux.  I  had  been 
feeling  all-overish  for  quite  a  while,  and  then  one  day  when  I  was 
off  on  a  voyage  my  motor  blew  up  on  me,  and  I  had  to  come 
down  for  a  forced  landing.  As  luck  would  have  it,  some  fool 
people  got  in  my  way,  just  as  I  was  coming  in  to  land,  and  as 
between  hitting  them  or  crashing,  I  took  the  latter,  and  hung 
myself  up  nicely  in  some  trees.  I  reduced  the  plane  to  kindling 
wood,  and  got  out  of  it  myself  whole  but  rather  battered. 
Among  other  odds  and  ends,  I  had  a  bad  wrist  which  reduced 
my  epistolary  efficiency.  That  in  itself  was  n't  anything  par- 
ticular, but  it  was  part  of  a  vague  general  uncomfortableness. 
Ham  and  I  talked  things  over,  and  found  that  we  both  were 
about  in  the  same  fix.  It  boiled  down  to  this,  that  we  both  were 
heartily  sick  of  the  work  we  were  doing,  and  that  we  wanted 
to  get  out  to  the  front,  or  anywhere  away  from  this  mud-ridden 
hole.  I  had  got  to  the  point  where  even  the  sight  of  a  flying 
student  filled  me  with  loathing.  It  is  rather  hard  to  teach  men 
to  fly,  and  send  them  on  through  the  school,  when  you  can  see 
no  future  in  sight  for  them.  I  knew  that  the  men  we  were  send- 
ing through  would  just  be  sent  to  a  gunnery  school,  and  then 
have  to  hang  around  goodness  only  knows  how  long  until  there 
were  any  planes  for  them  to  fly.  And  knowing  that  it  was 
awfully  hard  to  get  up  any  enthusiasm  for  a  job  which  I  hated 
anyway.  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  was  that  Ham  and  I  both 
decided,  independent  of  the  other,  that  we  were  stale.  So  I 
went  to  the  major  and  asked  him  if  he  could  not  arrange  to 
have  Ham  take  a  leave.  He  said  that,  on  account  of  the  offen- 
sive, leaves  were  being  discontinued,  but  that  he  would  allow 



Ham  to  take  a  plane  on  a  cross-country  to  Paris.  So  he  sent 
for  Ham  and  told  him  this,  whereupon  Ham  told  him  some  long 
song  and  dance  about  me,  resulting  in  our  both  being  sent  off 
with  our  planes  for  six  days'  rest  in  Paris.  Don't  you  think 
that  was  pretty  nice  of  him?  It  made  the  most  tremendous 
difference  to  me,  for  now  1  am  back  here  again,  and  though  I 
don't  like  the  work,  yet  I  do  see  how  useless  it  is  to  kick  about 
it  and  not  do  it,  when  there  is  no  chance  to  go  out  to  the  front 
anyway.  The  major  has  promised  us  anyway  that  as  soon 
as  any  bunch  goes  out  to  the  front  he  will  see  that  our  names  are 
on  the  list. 

May  4,  1918. 
There  are  some  nice  things  about  aviation,  really.  It  seems 
to  be  the  one  part  of  the  war  in  which  brother  Boche  has  the 
instincts  of  a  sportsman  and  a  gentleman.  Of  course  the  serv- 
ice is  as  full  of  wild  stories  as  a  boarding-school,  and  this  one 
I'm  not  sure  about,  —  though  I  think  it's  so.  After  Guynemer 
was  brought  down  a  Boche  flew  over  his  squadron's  airdrome 
and  dropped  a  letter  saying  that  his  funeral  would  be  on  a  cer- 
tain date  and  that  four  Frenchmen  would  be  given  safe  conduct 
to  land  on  the  German  field  and  attend  it.  They  accepted  it, 
and  flew  over,  landed  on  the  German  field,  were  received  by  the 
Germans,  attended  the  funeral,  and  then  went  back.  It's 
rather  a  fine  thing  if  true,  and  I  do  know  for  certain  that  they 
know  where  Guynemer's  grave  is,  so  it  may  be  true.  Then  just 
shortly  ago.  Baron  von  Richthofen,  the  German  ace,  was 
brought  down  by  the  English.  They  buried  him  with  full 
military  honors,  —  three  French  aces  and  three  English  aces 
for  his  pall-bearers.  It  must  have  been  most  impressive,  the 
French  and  English  soldiers  standing  to  attention  as  they  low- 
ered him  into  his  grave  while  the  English  chaplain  read  the 
burial  service  over  him.  All  those  are  the  little  things  that  will 
make  up  the  traditions  of  the  service  after  the  war's  over.  And 
it  is  a  nice  thing  to  know  that  the  things  that  you  are  to  some 
extent  a  part  of  will  be  the  traditions  of  the  service.    That  and 



the  certainty  that  there  will  be  plenty  of  war  left  even  when  I 
get  up  there,  helps  to  make  Issoudun  a  little  more  bearable. 

June  8,  1918. 
I've  had  so  much  happening  to  me,  though,  in  the  last  ten 
days,  that  I  have  not  had  time  to  think  even,  which  is  just  as 
well.  Ham  and  I  had  almost  begun  to  think  we  were  perman- 
ently stuck  in  Issoudun  when,  with  no  warning,  we  were  or- 
dered up  to  Orly,  which  is  just  outside  of  Paris.  No  one  knew 
anything  about  the  orders,  and  Ham  and  I  felt  sure  that  it 
meant  our  first  step  out  to  the  front.  Once  the  orders  came, 
though,  we  only  had  twelve  hours'  time  to  settle  everything  up 
and  leave.  You  can  imagine  how  we  hurried,  with  all  the 
good-byes  to  be  said,  and  packing,  and  paying  bills.  I  thought 
we  never  would  get  away,  but  finally  it  was  through,  and  we 
got  in  the  truck  and  started  to  leave  for  the  main  camp  to  get 
our  clearance  papers.  Then  they  did  one  of  the  nicest  things 
I've  ever  had  happen.  Our  truck  driver, instead  of  going  out 
the  regular  way,  took  us  down  the  lines  of  hangars  and  as  we 
went  past  all  the  mechanics  were  lined  up  in  front  and  cheered 
us  good-bye.  As  we  passed  the  last  hangar  one  of  the  sergeants 
yelled  after  us,  "Let  us  know  if  you're  captured,  and  we'll  come 
after  you."  So  I  left  with  a  big  lump  in  my  throat,  for  it's  nice 
to  know  that  your  men  have  liked  you. 

When  Quentin  Roosevelt  and  Hamilton  Coolidge 
reached  Headquarters  of  the  First  Pursuit  Group,  in  the 
Toul  sector,  they  hoped  for  assignments  to  the  same 
squadron;  but  the  two  existing  vacancies  were  respec- 
tively in  the  95th  and  the  94th  Squadron,  and  Roosevelt 
was  assigned  to  the  first  of  these,  Coolidge  to  the  second. 
Captain  "Eddie"'  Rickenbacker,  commanding  officer  of 
the  94th,  says  in  his  book,  "Fighting  the  Flying  Circus,"  ^ 

1  Published  by  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.  1919. 



that  "Squadron  95  contained  much  the  same  quahty  of 
material  as  my  own  squadron,"  and  goes  on  to  write  of 
the  new  recruit  to  the  95th: 

Quentin  Roosevelt  was  one  of  the  newly  assigned  pilots  in 
95.  Both  the  enlisted  men  and  his  fellow-pilots  found  that 
Quent  relied  upon  his  own  attainments  rather  than  upon  the 
reputation  of  his  celebrated  father;  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
Quent  Roosevelt  was  easily  the  most  popular  man  in  his 
Squadron.  To  indicate  Quentin's  love  for  square  dealing  and 
fairness,  I  may  divulge  a  little  secret  that  were  Quentin  still 
living  might  not  be  told. 

His  commanding  officer,  moved  perhaps  by  the  fact  that 
Quentin  was  the  son  of  Theodore  Roosevelt,  made  him  a  Flight 
Commander  before  he  had  ever  made  a  flight  over  the  lines. 
Quentin  appreciated  the  fact  that  his  inexperienced  leadership 
might  jeopardize  the  lives  of  the  men  following  him.  He  ac- 
cordingly declined  the  honor.  But  his  superiors  directed  him 
to  obey  orders  and  to  take  the  office  that  had  been  assigned  to 
him.  A  trio  of  pilots,  all  of  whom  had  more  experience  in  war 
flying  than  Quentin  had  so  far  received,  were  placed  under  his 
command.  And  an  order  was  posted  directing  Lieutenant 
Roosevelt's  Flight  to  go  on  its  first  patrol  the  following  morning. 

Quentin  called  his  pilots  to  one  side. 

"Look  here,  you  fellows,  which  one  of  you  has  had  the  most 
flying  over  the  lines?    You,  Curtis?" 

Curtis  shook  his  head,  and  replied: 

"Buckley,  or  Buford,  —  both  of  them  have  seen  more  of  this 
game  than  I  have." 

Quentin  looked  them  all  over  and  made  up  his  mind  before 
he  spoke. 

"Well,  any  one  of  you  knows  more  about  it  than  I  do!  To- 
morrow morning  you,  Buckley,  are  to  be  Flight  Commander  in 
my  place.  As  soon  as  we  leave  the  ground,  you  take  the  lead. 
I  will  drop  into  your  place.    We  will  try  out  each  man  in  turn. 



They  may  be  able  to  make  me  Flight  Commander  in  name,  but 
the  best  pilot  in  my  group  is  going  to  lead  it  in  fact." 

Until  the  day  he  died  a  gallant  soldier's  death,  Quentin 
Roosevelt  continued  to  fly  under  the  leadership  of  one  of  his 
pilots.    He  himself  had  never  led  a  flight. 

At  a  later  point  in  the  same  book,  Captain  Rickenbacker 
comes  back  to  Quentin  Roosevelt: 

As  President  Roosevelt's  son  he  had  rather  a  difficult  task  to 
fit  himself  in  with  the  democratic  style  of  living  which  is  neces- 
sary in  the  intimate  life  of  an  aviation  camp.  Every  one  who 
met  him  for  the  first  time  expected  him  to  have  the  airs  and 
superciliousness  of  a  spoiled  boy.  This  notion  was  quickly  lost 
after  the  first  glimpse  one  had  of  Quentin.  Gay,  hearty  and 
absolutely  square  in  everything  he  said  or  did,  Quentin  Roose- 
velt was  one  of  the  most  popular  fellows  in  the  group.  We  loved 
him  purely  for  his  own  natural  self. 

He  was  reckless  to  such  a  degree  that  his  commanding  officers 
had  to  caution  him  repeatedly  about  the  senselessness  of  his 
lack  of  caution.  His  bravery  was  so  notorious  that  we  all  knew 
he  would  either  achieve  some  great  spectacular  success  or  be 
killed  in  the  attempt.  Even  the  pilots  in  his  own  Flight  would 
beg  him  to  conserve  himself  and  wait  for  a  fair  opportunity  for 
a  victory.  But  Quentin  would  merely  laugh  away  all  serious 
advice.  His  very  next  flight  over  enemy  lines  would  involve 
him  in  a  fresh  predicament  from  which  pure  luck  on  more  than 
a  few  occasions  extricated  him. 

The  exploit  which  Captain  Rickenbacker  proceeds  to 
describe  after  this  passage  is  the  subject  of  one  of  Lieu- 
tenant Roosevelt's  own  letters : 

July  11,  1918. 
I  got  my  first  real  excitement  on  the  front,  for  I  think  I  got 
a  Boche.    The  Operations  Officer  is  trying  for  confirmation  on  it 
now.     I  was  out  on  high  patrol  with  the  rest  of  my  squadron 



when  we  got  broken  up,  due  to  a  mistake  in  formation.  I 
dropped  into  a  turn  of  a  vrille  —  these  planes  have  so  little  sur- 
face that  at  five  thousand  you  can't  do  much  with  them.  When 
I  got  straightened  out  I  could  n't  spot  my  crowd  anywhere,  so, 
as  I  had  only  been  up  an  hour,  I  decided  to  fool  around  a  little 
before  going  home,  as  I  was  just  over  the  lines.  I  turned  and 
circled  for  five  minutes  or  so,  and  then  suddenly  —  the  way 
planes  do  come  into  focus  in  the  air — I  saw  three  planes  in  for- 
mation. At  first  I  thought  they  were  Boche,  but  as  they  paid 
no  attention  to  me  I  finally  decided  to  chase  them,  thinking 
they  were  part  of  my  crowd,  so  I  started  after  them  full  speed. 
I  thought  at  the  time  it  was  a  little  strange,  with  the  wind 
blowing  the  way  it  was,  that  they  should  be  going  almost 
straight  into  Germany,  but  I  had  plenty  of  gas  so  I  kept  on. 

They  had  been  going  absolutely  straight  and  I  was  nearly  in 
formation  when  the  leader  did  a  turn,  and  I  saw  to  my  horror 
that  they  had  white  tails  with  black  crosses  on  them.  Still  I 
was  so  near  by  them  that  I  thought  I  might  pull  up  a  little  and 
take  a  crack  at  them.  I  had  altitude  on  them,  and  what  was 
more  they  had  n't  seen  me,  so  I  pulled  up,  put  my  sights  on  the 
end  man,  and  let  go.  I  saw  my  tracers  going  all  around  him, 
but  for  some  reason  he  never  even  turned,  until  all  of  a  sudden 
his  tail  came  up  and  he  went  down  in  a  vrille.  I  wanted  to 
follow  him  but  the  other  two  had  started  around  after  me,  so 
I  had  to  cut  and  run.  However,  I  could  half  watch  him  look- 
ing back,  and  he  was  still  spinning  when  he  hit  the  clouds  three 
thousand  metres  below.  Of  course  he  may  have  just  been 
scared,  but  I  think  he  must  have  been  hit  or  he  would  have 
come  out  before  he  struck  the  clouds.  Three  thousand  metres 
is  an  awfully  long  spin. 

I  had  a  long  chase  of  it  for  they  followed  me  all  the  way  back 
to  our  side  of  the  lines,  but  our  speed  was  about  equal  so  I  got 
away.  The  trouble  is  that  it  was  about  twenty  kilometres 
inside  their  lines  and,  I  am  afraid,  too  far  to  get  confirmation.^ 

1  After  Quentin  Roosevelt's  death  this  victory  was  verified  by  the 
French  and  duly  credited. 



It  was  only  three  days  after  the  writing  of  this  letter 
that  Quentin  Roosevelt  met  his  death,  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  Fall  of  the  Bastille.  He  had  devoted  the  evening 
before  this  French  festival  to  preparing  some  of  his  com- 
rades to  participate,  with  American  ragtime  and  banjos, 
much  appreciated  by  the  French,  in  an  entertainment 
planned  for  the  observance  of  July  14.  In  the  morning 
of  that  day  he  set  forth  on  the  patrol  from  which  he  never 
returned.  The  story  of  his  death  is  told  in  a  letter  written 
to  the  father  of  Lieutenant  Edward  Buford,  Jr.,  by  that 
fellow-officer  of  the  95th  Squadron,  who  accompanied 
Roosevelt  on  the  fatal  patrol,  and,  for  a  time,  was  himself 
reported  missing: 

You  asked  me  if  I  knew  Quentin  Roosevelt.  Yes,  I  knew 
him  very  well  indeed,  and  had  been  associated  with  him  ever 
since  I  came  to  France,  and  he  was  one  of  the  finest  and  most 
courageous  boys  I  ever  knew.  I  was  in  the  fight  when  he  was 
shot  down  and  saw  the  whole  thing. 

Four  of  us  were  out  on  an  early  patrol  and  we  had  just  crossed 
the  lines  looking  for  Boche  observation  machines,  when  we  ran 
into  seven  Fokker  Chasse  planes.  They  had  the  altitude  and 
the  advantage  of  the  sun  on  us.  It  was  very  cloudy  and  there 
was  a  strong  wind  blowing  us  farther  across  the  lines  all  the 
time.  The  leader  of  our  formation  turned  and  tried  to  get  back 
out,  but  they  attacked  before  we  reached  the  lines,  and  in  a 
few  seconds  had  completely  broken  up  our  formation  and  the 
fight  developed  in  a  general  free-for-all.  I  tried  to  keep  an  eye 
on  all  of  our  fellows  but  we  were  hopelessly  separated  and  out- 
numbered nearly  two  to  one.  About  a  half  a  mile  away  I  saw 
one  of  our  planes  with  three  Boche  on  him,  and  he  seemed  to 
be  having  a  pretty  hard  time  with  them,  so  I  shook  the  two  I 
was  maneuvering  with  and  tried  to  get  over  to  him,  but  before 
I  could  reach  them,  one  machine  turned  over  on  its  back  and 



plunged  down  out  of  control.  I  realized  it  was  too  late  to  be  of 
any  assistance  and  as  none  of  our  other  machines  were  in  sight, 
I  made  for  a  bank  of  clouds  to  try  and  gain  altitude  on  the  Huns, 
and  when  I  came  back  out,  they  had  reformed,  but  there  were 
only  six  of  them,  so  I  believe  we  must  have  gotten  one, 

I  waited  around  about  ten  minutes  to  see  if  I  could  pick  up 
any  of  our  fellows,  but  thej^  had  disappeared,  so  I  came  on  home, 
dodging  from  one  cloud  to  another  for  fear  of  running  into  an- 
other Boche  formation.  Of  course,  at  the  time  of  the  fight  I 
did  not  know  who  the  pilot  was  I  had  seen  go  down,  but  as 
Quentin  did  not  come  back,  it  must  have  been  him.  His  loss 
was  one  of  the  severest  blows  we  have  ever  had  in  the  Squadron, 
but  he  certainly  died  fighting,  for  any  one  of  us  could  have  got- 
ten away  as  soon  as  the  scrap  started  with  the  clouds  as  they 
were  that  morning.  I  have  tried  several  times  to  write  to 
Colonel  Roosevelt,  but  it  is  practically  impossible  for  me  to 
write  a  letter  of  condolence,  but  if  I  am  lucky  enough  to  get 
back  to  the  States,  I  expect  to  go  to  see  him. 

A  German  communique,  intercepted  by  American  wire- 
less two  days  after  Quentin  Roosevelt's  death,  gave  the 
enemy  version  of  the  story: 

On  July  fourteen  seven  of  our  chasing  planes  were  attacked 
by  a  superior  number  of  American  planes  north  of  Dormans. 
After  a  stubborn  fight,  one  of  the  pilots  —  Lieutenant  Roose- 
velt, —  who  had  shown  conspicuous  bravery  during  the  fight 
by  attacking  again  and  again  without  regard  to  danger,  was 
shot  in  the  head  by  his  more  experienced  opponent  and  fell  at 

The  tradition  of  chivalry  between  opposing  aviators  was 
confirmed  by  the  German  burial  of  Quentin  Roosevelt, 
witnessed,  on  July  15,  by  Captain  James  E.  Gee,  of  the 
110th  Infantry,  who  had  been  captured  and  was  on  his 
way  to  the  rear.    Thus  he  wrote  of  what  he  saw: 



In  a  hollow  square  about  the  open  grave  were  assembled  ap- 
proximately one  thousand  German  soldiers,  standing  stiffly  in 
regular  lines.  They  were  dressed  in  field  gray  uniforms,  wore 
steel  helmets,  and  carried  rifles.  Officers  stood  at  attention 
before  the  ranks.  Near  the  grave  was  the  smashed  plane,  and 
beside  it  was  a  small  group  of  officers,  one  of  whom  was  speak- 
ing to  the  men. 

I  did  not  pass  close  enough  to  hear  what  he  was  saying;  we 
were  prisoners  and  did  not  have  the  privilege  of  lingering,  even 
for  such  an  occasion  as  this.  At  the  time  I  did  not  know  who 
was  being  buried,  but  the  guards  informed  me  later.  The  fun- 
eral certainly  was  elaborate.  I  was  told  afterward  by  Germans 
that  they  paid  Lieutenant  Roosevelt  such  honor  not  only  be- 
cause he  was  a  gallant  aviator,  who  died  fighting  bravely 
against  odds,  but  because  he  was  the  son  of  Colonel  Roosevelt, 
whom  they  esteemed  as  one  of  the  greatest  Americans. 

When  Chamery,  about  ten  kilometres  north  of  the 
Marne,  was  retaken  by  the  Allies  on  July  18,  American 
soldiers  found  a  grave  marked  by  a  wooden  cross  inscribed : 

Lieutenant  Roosevelt 
Buried  by  the  Germans 

The  broken  propeller  blades  and  bent  wheels  of  his  plane, 
the  shattered  remains  of  which  lay  near  by,  also  marked 
the  grave.  A  cross  erected  by  the  engineer  regiment  that 
had  occupied  Chamery  bore  the  words: 

Here  rests  on  the  field  of  honor 

Quentin  Roosevelt 

Air  Service,  U.  S.  A. 

Killed  in  action,  July  1918 



Still  another  inscription,  placed  on  an  oaken  enclosure 
reared  by  the  French,  read : 

QuENTiN  Roosevelt 

Escadrille  95 

Tombe  glorieusement 

En  combat  aerien 

Le  14  juillet  1918 

Pour  le  droit 

et  la  Liberie 

It  is  a  circumstance  to  be  recorded  that  the  German 
fighting  pilot,  Sergeant  Greper,  who  brought  Quentin 
Roosevelt  to  earth  with  two  shots  through  the  head,  sur- 
vived the  war  but  was  killed  in  an  accident  while  delivering 
German  airplanes  to  the  American  forces  under  the  terms 
of  the  Armistice. 

From  friends  like  Hamilton  Coolidge,  from  a  multitude 
of  others,  came  private  and  public  expressions  of  the 
grievous  sense  of  loss  that  followed  the  death  of  Quentin 
Roosevelt,  and  of  admiration  for  the  spirit  in  which  his 
father  and  mother,  who  stood  before  the  country  as  the 
national  embodiment  of  bereaved  parents,  met  and  ac- 
cepted their  sacrifice.  The  youth  who  gave  his  life  and 
they  who  survive  him  illustrated,  alike  and  notably,  the 
words:  "To  whom  much  is  given,  from  him  shall  much 
be  required." 

Apart  from  all  personal  considerations,  the  death  of 
Quentin  Roosevelt  produced  an  extraordinary  public,  even 
international,  effect.  This  is  clearly  revealed  in  a  letter 
to  Colonel  Roosevelt,  from  a  clergyman  of  Northampton, 



My  brother  Lieutenant  Frederick  M.  Stoudt  served  abroad 
during  the  war  in  the  Motor  Transport  Corps,  and  was  sta- 
tioned most  of  the  time  at  Verneil,  France,  at  the  Reconstruc- 
tion Park  772,  where  he  had  charge  of  a  department  in  the  Sheet 
Metal  and  Welding  Shop.  Towards  the  end  of  the  war  he  had 
upwards  of  two  hundred  German  prisoners  working  in  his  de- 
partment. He  tells  of  a  young  German  officer,  quite  intelligent, 
who  delighted  in  discussing  the  war,  and  who  would  ask  many 
questions  about  America  and  our  entering  into  the  war. 

This  young  officer  told  my  brother  the  following  in  substance, 
concerning  the  effect  upon  the  Germans  at  the  falling  of  your 
son  Quentin.  That  when  he  fell  the  fact  was  heralded  through- 
out the  German  army,  and  throughout  the  Central  powers. 
That  photos  of  his  grave  and  his  wrecked  plane  were  published 
and  exhibited  profusely  far  and  wide.  That  the  German  au- 
thorities believed  it  to  be  good  propaganda,  with  which  to 
hearten  both  the  soldiers  and  the  people  at  home.  But  that  it 
had  the  opposite  effect  and  produced  as  far  as  they  were  con- 
cerned a  negative  effect  or  result.  That  no  sooner  had  Quentin 
fallen  but  that  it  was  whispered  from  ear  to  ear,  from  trench 
to  trench.  That  in  it  one  could  see  how  in  free  America  every- 
body was  fighting.  That  though  America  was  in  the  war  only 
for  a  short  time,  the  son  of  an  American  President,  engaged  in 
one  of  the  most  dangerous  lines  of  service,  was  lying  back  of 
the  German  lines,  while  their  country  had  been  at  war  three 
years  and  that  neither  the  Kaiser,  nor  any  of  his  sons  were  ever 
so  much  as  scratched.  That  it  gave  the  soldiers  a  vision  of  the 
democracy  of  America,  and  helped  to  deepen  the  feeling  that 
they,  the  common  soldiers,  were  only  cannon  fodder  for  the 
Kaiser.  That  it  made  real  to  them  the  difference  between  au- 
tocracy and  democracy,  of  which  they  had  heard  so  much.  That 
this  feeling  spread  like  wildfire,  not  only  throughout  the  army, 
but  also  among  the  people  at  home.  That  those  elements  in 
Germany  that  were  opposed  to  the  war  seized  upon  it  and  en- 
larged the  suggestion.    This  young  ofiicer  declared  that  in  the 



judgment  of  many  this  was  the  largest  single  factor  in  the  break- 
ing of  the  morale  of  the  German  Army. 

With  all  that  is  suggested  by  this  remarkable  statement 
Quentin  Roosevelt's  contribution  to  the  war  must  be 



Law  School  1916-17 

J.  HE  name  of  George  Waite  Goodwin  is  found  on  the  Roll 
of  Honor  of  three  ancient  New  England  institutions  of 
learning  —  Phillips  Academy,  Andover,  Yale,  and  Har- 
vard. In  all  of  these  it  finds  a  fitting  place,  for  through 
his  father  he  traced  descent  from  the  earliest  settlers  of 
Connecticut  and  through  his  mother  from  two  Mayflower 
Pilgrims.  He  was  born  at  Glens  Falls,  New  York,  July  31, 
1895.  His  father,  for  many  years  a  practising  lawyer  in 
Albany,  was  Scott  DuMont  Goodwin  (Yale,  '69);  his 
mother,  Sarah  Coffin  (Waite)  Goodwin.  He  studied  at 
Andover  only  a  year  before  entering  Yale,  but  in  that  year, 
1911-12,  won  honors  in  all  his  subjects.  At  Yale,  where 
he  graduated  in  1916,  he  received  third  division  honors  in 



his  freshman  year,  a  dissertation  appointment  in  his  junior 
year,  and  a  first  dispute  senior  appointment.  As  a  junior 
he  was  a  member  of  the  University  Orchestra. 

Between  graduating  from  Yale  and  entering  the  Har- 
vard Law  School,  he  attended  the  1916  camp  at  Platts- 
burg,  where  he  qualified  as  a  marksman.  At  the  Law 
School  he  pursued  his  studies  in  the  manner  to  be  ex- 
pected from  one  with  his  school  and  college  record,  and 
established  warm  personal  relations  with  fellow-students. 
When  the  time  for  war  service  came,  he  chose  the  part  of 
going  abroad  at  once  and  enlisting  for  the  ambulance  work 
of  the  American  Field  Service.  This  he  joined  June  25, 
1917,  and  was  immediately  assigned  to  Section  69,  oper- 
ating in  the  neighborhood  of  Verdun.  In  evacuating 
wounded  to  the  large  central  hospitals  at  Bar-le-Duc,  in 
August,  at  other  places  through  September  and  a  large 
part  of  October,  the  section  rendered  important  service, 
in  which  Goodwin  played  his  full  part.  One  letter  to  his 
father  illustrates  the  nature  of  this  work. 

September  8, 1917. 

Since  last  I  wrote  you  we  have  moved  up  to  Verdun  and  are 
camped  in  a  big  hospital,  where  we  expect  to  be  for  an  uncertain 
length  of  time  as  we  are  attached  to  no  army  division  as  yet  and 
are  merely  reserves. 

We  moved  out  of  our  little  village  at  four  in  the  morning  and 
wandered  around  most  of  the  day  before  we  arrived  here.  We 
had  a  little  time  before  supper  to  get  fixed  up,  and  then  right 
after  that,  five  of  our  cars  were  sent  out  to  get  some  blesses.  We 
traveled  along  a  road  screened  by  painted  cloths,  and  then, 
exactly  on  the  dot  of  the  hour  at  which  we  had  heard  that  the 
attack  would  begin,  we  could  see,  through  the  cloths,  hundreds 
of  little  spurts  of  flame  off  at  quite  a  distance.    It  was  like  a 



circus  of  which  we  could  only  see  enough  to  whet  our  curiosity. 
We  crossed  a  river,  or  canal  —  hard  to  tell  which  around  here 
—  and  then  went  along  the  road  under  the  rows  of  poplar  trees, 
which  one  invariably  finds  near  roads  and  canals.  On  our  right 
was  a  very  high  embankment  with  dug-outs,  and  at  last  we 
came  to  a  tent  —  our  destination  —  a  receiving  station  for  the 
wounded.  The  first  four  cars  took  out  all  they  had  and  we  were 
left  to  wait  for  new  arrivals.  We  climbed  the  embankment 
and  watched  the  firing  on  the  whole  battlefield  —  smoke,  star- 
shells,  red  lights  and  thousands  of  little  points  of  light  from  the 
guns,  from  far  off  on  the  left  to  as  far  as  one  could  see  on  the 
right.  The  noise  was  not  so  loud  as  I  had  expected,  because  we 
were  a  number  of  kilometres  away.  Our  noisiest  member  was 
a  battery  of  soixante-quinze,  just  out  of  sight  around  the  corner, 
which  went  off  every  now  and  then  with  a  sharp  crack.  At 
last  we  scrambled  down  the  steep  sandy  bank  and  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  river  near  the  car,  to  watch  the  sun  set  and  keep  an 
eye  out  for  incoming  blesses.  About  half  a  dozen  shells  screamed 
past  us  and  exploded  at  some  distance.  It  became  very  dark, 
and  we  finally  got  our  poilus  to  carry  back  to  one  of  the  numer- 
ous hospitals  in  and  around  the  city. 

After  considerable  searching  around  in  the  dark  we  found  it  — 
not  far  from  our  cantonment,  a  wonderful  old  Catholic  Seminary 
— with  all  our  cars  drawn  up  in  the  court,  going  out  one  by  one, 
shifting  the  blesses  further  back  to  larger  and  better  equipped 
hospitals.  A  "Ford"  section  was  bringing  them  in  from  the 
front  and  we  sat  in  the  courtyard  until  it  became  very  chilly  — 
watching  them  unload.  Inside,  by  the  light  of  a  few  candles 
and  dim  lights,  was  a  rather  interesting  scene:  a  square,  tiled 
room  with  a  low  ceiling,  and  a  bench  running  around  all  four 
sides.  For  some  reason,  a  stove  in  the  middle  of  the  room  was 
burning  away,  though  the  air  was  stifling  with  smoke,  bad  air, 
and  ether.  At  a  table  in  the  corner  several  ofiicers  were  filling 
out  the  cards  with  which  each  wounded  soldier  is  tagged.  |  In 
another  corner  were  stacks  of  bandages  and  bottles,  and  the 



benches  were  filled  with  brancardiers  and  sleepy  American  ani- 
bulanciers.  The  wounded  were  carried  in  on  the  brancards  and 
placed  on  the  floor.  Some  idea  was  gained  of  their  condition, 
and  they  were  rated  accordingly  and  assigned  to  various  hos- 
pitals. Some  of  them  were  in  pretty  terrible  condition,  but  very 
few  were  reserved  as  being  absolutely  immovable.  All  were 
given  injections  for  tetanus. 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  person  there  was  the  black- 
robed  priest  —  with  rank  of  Captain  in  the  French  Army,  wear- 
ing a  Croix  de  Guerre,  probably  richly  deserved,  who  knelt 
beside  each  man  and  muttered  a  few  words  of  prayer  or  comfort. 
All  night  long  he  sat  there,  always  wakeful  for  any  occasion 
when  he  might  be  needed  —  the  rest  of  us  trying  to  snatch  some 
sleep  in  any  convenient  position  or  attitude.  We  waited  all 
night  and  carried  a  couple  of  blesses  a  short  distance  when  our 
turn  came.  From  now  on  we  will  have  twenty-four  hour  shifts 
—  the  first  ten  cars  one  day  and  the  other  ten  the  next.  I  don't 
imagine  it  will  be  particularly  thrilling  with  the  present  ar- 

Goodwin's  connection  with  Section  69  lasted  until  Octo- 
ber 24.  At  about  this  time  the  section  disbanded,  and 
many  of  its  members  enlisted  in  the  United  States  Army. 
Goodwin  had  always  felt  the  appeal  of  aviation,  and  on 
November  5  enlisted  for  training  in  that  branch  of  service. 
On  May  15,  1918,  after  instruction  at  Tours,  Saint- 
Maixent,  Gondrecourt,  and  Chateauroux,  he  received  his 
commission  as  second  lieutenant.  One  of  his  comrades  in 
training  wrote  of  him  after  his  death : 

I  need  not  tell  you  how  popular  he  was  with  us.  He  could  n't 
help  but  be,  and  he  was  easily  that  one  of  us  who  was  best  liked 
by  the  French  officers  and  instructors  at  the  school.  Nobody 
was  more  eager  to  complete  his  training  and  get  to  the  front  as  a 



chasse-pilote.  No  one  of  us  was  doing  quite  so  well  in  his  work 
here  as  "Goody."  In  fact,  he  was  so  apt  in  flying  that  his 
vioniteurs  released  him  after  only  four  hours  in  the  air.  He 
promised  to  be  the  first  to  get  through. 

His  own  view  of  the  object  of  all  this  training  was  ex- 
pressed in  an  entry  in  his  diary  as  early  as  December  11, 
1917:  "It  is  quite  fixed  now  in  my  mind  that  if  ever  I  get 
to  the  front  I  will  go  up  against  the  Germans  —  no  matter 
how  many  there  be."  Six  months  later,  after  he  had  re- 
ceived his  commission,  he  had  occasion  to  write,  June  10, 
1918,  to  the  widow  of  a  young  Yale  friend  killed  in  action 
only  ten  days  after  his  marriage.  A  portion  of  the  letter 
speaks  clearly  for  Goodwin's  feeling  about  the  war: 

You  must  be  very,  very  proud  to  have  had  your  husband  die 
so  honorably.  First  or  last  the  war  will  come  very  close  to  most 
of  us  and  we  would  n't  have  it  otherwise.  My  greatest  horror 
would  be  to  have  to  occupy  a  place  of  safety.  We  who  can  take 
any  active  part  are  fortunate.  Certainly  one  could  hunt  through 
the  histories  from  the  beginning  and  never  find  a  better  time 
to  live  or  better  cause  to  die  for.  I  'm  glad  I  'm  living  and  trying 
to  do  my  bit.  If  anything  should  happen  to  me  I  would  call 
my  family  foolish  if  they  were  n't  glad  rather  than  sad  that  I 
had  done  so  well.  So  I'm  quite  cheerful  about  anything  that 
may  happen. 

What  did  happen,  in  slightly  more  than  a  month,  was 
one  of  those  accidents  to  which  the  best  of  aviators  were 
subject  before  their  days  of  combat  came.  On  July  15, 
1918,  he  left  the  camp  at  Chateauroux  for  a  "solo  flight," 
and  was  passing  a  French  machine,  flying  in  the  opposite 
direction,  when  it  suddenly  swerved  from  its  course,  and 
cut  the  tail  from  Goodwin's  plane.     They  were  about  a 



hundred  metres  in  the  air.  FaUing  from  this  height  Good- 
win sustained  injuries  from  which  he  died  that  day  with- 
out regaining  consciousness.  He  was  buried,  with  mih- 
tary  honors,  in  the  American  Cemetery  at  Chateauroux. 
In  September,  1920,  his  body  was  reinterred  in  the  Rural 
Cemetery,  Albany,  New  York. 

The  Aeronautic  League  of  France  honored  Goodwin's 
memory  by  the  award  of  a  bronze  plaque,  designed  for 
the  recognition  of  meritorious  students  of  aviation,  but 
infrequently  bestowed.  The  more  personal  terms  of  recog- 
nition are  the  more  significant,  and  this  memoir  cannot 
close  more  appropriately  than  with  a  few  words  from  a 
letter  written  by  a  Princeton  friend  (Andrew  T.  H.  Ken- 
ney),  who  had  been  thrown  intimately  with  Goodwin  both 
at  the  Harvard  Law  School  and  in  the  aviation  service: 

George  was  straight  and  clean  and  fair.  He  played  all  life's 
games  with  a  nerve  and  a  full  heart.  We  used  to  work  together 
and  dance  together  and  play  together.  And  now  he  has  gone, 
leaving  a  life  as  full  and  swift  and  perfect  as  it  is  possible  for 
one  to  be.  He  worked  and  fought  for  a  cause  that  is  as  noble 
and  fine  as  was  his  sacrifice.  We  can  feel  certain  that  he  has 
aided  to  the  fullest  measure  the  coming  of  that  era  we  all  have 
been  praying  for.  We  who  were  his  friends  will  be  sure  to  fight 
more  fiercely  in  war  and  peace  for  those  ideals  for  which  he  died. 



Class  of  1916 

J.  HE  parents  of  Homer  Atherton  Hunt  were  Francis 
Atherton  Hunt,  a  brother  of  Atherton  Nash  Hunt,  of  the 
Harvard  Class  of  1887,  and  Mary  Merrill  (Lane)  Hunt,  a 
daughter  of  George  Homer  Lane  of  Boston.  In  his  Hunt 
ancestry,  he  counted  John  and  Priscilla  Alden  of  the 
Plymouth  Colony,  and  Enoch  Hunt,  an  early  settler  of 
Weymouth,  Massachusetts,  where  he  was  born  Decem- 
ber 10,  1894.  While  he  was  still  a  child  his  family  moved 
from  Weymouth  to  Braintree.  In  this  place  he  attended 
the  public  schools  and  received  his  final  preparation  for 
college  at  Thayer  Academy.  He  entered  Harvard,  a  can- 
didate for  the  Bachelor  of  Arts  degree,  with  the  Class  of 



1916,  but  remained  in  college  only  two  years.  Between 
1914  and  1917  he  was  employed  by  Cordingley  and  Com- 
pany, wool  merchants  in  Boston,  and  had  become  a  suc- 
cessful wool  buyer  when  the  United  States  entered  the 

On  October  4,  1917,  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  army, 
and  was  assigned  to  the  301st  Infantry,  26th  Division, 
then  in  training  at  Camp  Devens.  In  October  also  he  was 
married  to  Susan  Elmira  Hagar,  of  Weston,  Massachu- 
setts. On  March  11,  1918,  he  sailed  for  France,  where 
he  was  transferred  to  Company  E,  165th  Infantry,  42d 
("Rainbow")  Division.  This  was  formerly  the  famous 
"Fighting  69th"  New  York  Irish  regiment,  the  distin- 
guishing characteristics  of  which  are  suggested  on  later 
pages  of  this  volume  in  the  memoirs  of  Lieutenant  Oliver 
Ames,  Jr.,  and  Major  James  A.  McKenna,  Jr.,  both  offi- 
cers of  the  165  th. 

Early  in  July,  1918,  this  regiment  was  summoned  to 
the  Champagne  front  to  meet  an  expected  attack  of 
the  Germans,  and  Hunt  participated  accordingly  in  the 
Champagne-Marne  defensive.  On  July  15  he  was  killed 
in  action  at  St.  Hilaire-le-Petit.  "We  were  in  reserve," 
another  private  reported.  "He  was  struck  with  a  direct 
hit  from  a  shell  and  killed  instantly.  He  received  a  letter 
the  day  before  he  died  with  a  picture  of  his  baby  onlj'  a 
few  days  old.  One  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world.  He 
spoke  French  fluently."  Still  another  comrade.  Private 
Lowell  Holbrook,  a  Braintree  boy,  reported  the  circum- 
stances a  little  differentlv.  Hunt  and  Holbrook  were 
liaison  runners  for  Battalion  Headquarters.  It  was  their 
duty  to  take  messages  for  their  major  to  one  company 



and  another.  When  a  barrage  was  put  over  it  was  their 
work  to  set  out  with  a  message,  one  keeping  about  fifty 
feet  behind  the  other,  so  that  if  the  first  should  fall,  the 
second  could  take  the  message  from  his  pocket  and  carry 
it  on.  This  is  Holbrook's  brief  statement:  "I  was  right 
beside  Hunt  when  he  was  killed.  We  were  lying  on  the 
ground  and  Hunt  was  leaning  his  head  against  the  post. 
A  high  explosive  burst  near  us  and  the  vibration  of  the 
post  caused  by  it  killed  him.  He  was  buried  that  night 
about  thirty  feet  from  where  he  was  killed."  After  the 
Armistice  his  body  was  reinterred  in  the  Argonne  Ameri- 
can Cemetery,  Romagne-sous-Montfaucon,  Meuse,  and 
there,  in  accordance  with  the  wishes  of  his  father  and 
widow,  it  has  remained. 

At  the  Harvard  Commencement  of  1920,  the  war  degree 
of  A.B.  was  awarded  to  Homer  Atherton  Hunt,  as  of  the 
Class  of  1916. 



Class  of  1917 

(jTEORGE  Francis  McGillen,  a  son  of  Owen  Mc- 
Gillen  and  Anna  (Fitzpatrick)  McGillen,  of  Brookline, 
Massachusetts,  was  born  in  East  Boston,  February  14, 
1894.  He  made  his  preparation  for  college  at  the  Pierce 
Grammar  School  of  Brookline  and  the  Brookline  High 
School.    For  two  years  he  played  on  the  football  team  of 



the  High  School,  and  for  one  year  was  manager  of  its 
baseball  team.  At  Harvard,  which  he  entered  in  the 
autumn  of  1913,  he  played  football  and  became  a  member 
of  the  Catholic  Club.  In  the  Triennial  Report  of  the 
Class  of  1917,  the  Class  Secretary  has  said  of  him:  "Al- 
though he  only  remained  one  year,  most  of  us  remember 
the  cheerful,  kindly  boy  who  made  us  always  glad  to  meet 
him  in  the  Yard  or  in  our  rooms.  He  did  not  remain  in 
Cambridge  long  enough  to  take  an  active  part  in  under- 
graduate affairs,  but  his  record  during  the  war  entitles 
him  to  a  sure  place  in  the  annals  of  the  Class  of  1917." 

In  the  interval  between  leaving  college  and  participat- 
ing in  the  war,  McGillen  was  employed  continuously  by 
the  M.  B.  Foster  Electric  Company  of  Boston,  electrical 
contractors,  and  in  the  spring  of  1917  held  the  position 
of  assistant  superintendent.  In  March  he  enlisted  as  a 
private  in  the  Brookline  Machine  Gun  Company,  formed 
at  that  time,  and  soon  afterwards  known  as  the  Machine 
Gun  Company  of  the  9th  Regiment,  National  Guard. 
After  its  federalization,  July  25,  1917,  it  was  designated 
as  the  Machine  Gun  Company,  101st  Infantry,  26th 
Division.  In  August  McGillen  was  promoted  sergeant 
of  this  company,  then  in  training  for  overseas  service 
at  Camp  McGuinness,  Framingham,  Massachusetts.  On 
September  4  it  entrained  for  Hoboken,  whence  it  sailed  for 
France  on  the  following  day,  arriving  at  Saint-Nazaire, 
September  20. 

Soon  after  McGillen's  landing  in  France,  he  was  ordered 
to  the  Automatic  Weapon  School  of  the  American  Army 
at  Gondrecourt.  There,  in  the  months  of  October  and 
November,  he  qualified  as  a  machine  gun  instructor.    In 



January  he  went  to  the  First  Officers'  School  at  Langres, 
and  prepared  himself  for  the  second  lieutenancy  to  which 
he  was  commissioned,  May  15,  1918.  He  was  then  as- 
signed to  Company  A,  Machine  Gun  Battalion,  9th  In- 
fantry, a  unit  of  the  3d  Division,  American  Expeditionary 

On  June  1  the  companj^  entered  the  front  line  at 
Chateau-Thierry.  From  this  date  until  that  of  McGil- 
len's  death,  it  was  constantlj^  taking  its  part  in  holding 
the  line  at  various  points,  chiefly  on  the  Marne.  The 
German  offensive  in  which  McGillen  lost  his  life  began  at 
midnight  of  July  14,  while  he  was  in  command  of  four 
guns,  each  holding  a  strategic  point  on  the  river.  When 
the  bombardment  opened  he  was  taking  a  late  supper  at 
the  post  of  command,  in  the  small  village  of  Parroy,  near 
Chateau-Thierry,  about  ten  minutes'  walk  from  his  gun 
positions.  One  of  the  officers  who  were  with  him  at  the 
P.  C.  reports  his  saying  repeatedly,  "I  want  to  go  down 
to  my  men,  and  I  don't  care  what  happens."  His  com- 
panions prevailed  upon  him  for  a  time  to  remain  where  he 
was,  for  the  bombardment  was  terrific,  and  venturing 
forth  meant  certain  death.  Still  he  insisted  upon  joining 
his  men  and  at  about  3.30  a.m.  (July  15)  Captain  Carswell 
and  Lieutenant  Russell  of  the  9th  Machine  Gun  Battalion, 
who  had  so  far  prevented  his  taking  the  unnecessary  risk, 
left  their  place  of  safety  with  him  to  see  if  it  was  then  pos- 
sible for  him  to  carry  out  his  wish.  As  they  stood  outside 
the  P.  C,  a  shell  exploded  in  the  air,  and  McGillen,  look- 
ing up,  was  hit  over  the  eye  with  a  piece  of  shrapnel, 
which  killed  him  almost  instantlv,  after  he  had  sunk  to 
the  ground  and  asked  for  a  drink  of  water.     One  of  his 



companions  escaped  unhurt;  the  flesh  was  stripped  from 
the  other's  back,  from  shoulder  to  waist.  McGillen's 
body  was  laid  in  the  post  of  command,  where  it  was 
found  undisturbed  a  few  days  later,  after  the  place  had 
first  been  taken  by  the  Germans  and  then  captured  by  the 
American  troops.  Buried  in  a  plot  of  ground  nearby,  the 
body  was  reburied  a  year  later  in  the  American  Cemetery 
at  Seringes-et-Nerles,  Aisne. 

It  is  the  testimony  of  Captain  Carswell  that  "the  death 
of  no  other  man  caused  greater  grief  and  sorrow  to  the 
whole  company.  While  with  us,  he  had  greatly  endeared 
himself  to  everyone,  always  seeing  the  humorous  side  of 
everything.  Endowed  with  a  sterling  character,  he  had 
proved  himself  such  an  efficient  officer  and  good  leader  of 
men  that  no  other  man  in  the  battalion  was  better  loved 
or  stood  higher  in  personal  estimation." 

A  non-commissioned  officer  of  the  company  has  de- 
clared that  from  the  way  he  conducted  himself  on  a  par- 
ticularly bad  night,  June  6,  1918,  he  was  rated  one  of 
the  best  officers  in  the  battalion,  for  not  only  then,  but 
at  other  times,  he  "seemed  to  be  everywhere,"  constantly 
cheering  and  helping  his  men.  It  was  this  sergeant, 
Jerome  Moynahan,  who  defined  Lieutenant  McGillen  as 
one  who  "will  always  be  remembered  by  us  as  a  thorough 
soldier,  brave  and  true,  and  a  real  gentleman." 

One  of  his  younger  brothers,  James  G.  McGillen,  '20, 
was  commissioned  ensign  from  the  Officer  Material 
School  at  Harvard  and  detailed  to  duties  at  American 
stations;  another  enlisted  in  the  navy  at  the  age  of 
seventeen  and  served  in  transport  duty  for  a  year  and  a 



Law  School  1915-17 

W  HEN  the  body  of  Edmond  David  Stewart,  Jr.,  killed 
in  action  July  15,  1918,  on  the  Champagne  front,  was 
brought  to  his  native  town  of  New  Cumberland,  West 
Virginia,  for  burial  on  October  23,  1921,  a  professor  of 
English  at  the  University  of  West  Virginia,  unable  him- 
self to  be  present,  offered  the  following  tribute  to  be  read 

as  part  of  the  services : 

October  20, 1921. 
To  THE  Memory  or  Edmond  D.  Stewart: 

Beloved  youth;  brilliant  student;  member  of  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society,  the  Delta  Tau  Delta  Fraternity,  the  Beowulf 
Gedrhyt,  the  English  Club,  the  Greek  Club,  distinguished  for 
his  fine  presence,  handsome  face,  becoming  modesty,  and  un- 
failing courtesy;    ambitious  to  be  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman; 



embued  with  the  knightly  qualities  of  courage,  temperance,  and 
chastity;  a  patriot  of  exalted  devotion,  who  laid  down  his  life 
in  the  service  of  his  country. 

May  his  memory  be  sacred  forever. 

By  his  affectionate  teacher, 

John  Harrington  Cox. 

The  young  man  of  whom  these  words  were  written  was 
born,  October  25,  1894,  in  New  Cumberland,  West  Vir- 
ginia, still  the  home  of  his  parents.  He  made  his  prepa- 
ration for  college  in  the  New  Cumberland  public  schools, 
from  which  he  entered  the  University  of  West  Virginia, 
at  Morgantown,  with  the  Class  of  1915.  The  record  he 
made  for  himself  there,  through  both  scholarship  and 
character,  has  been  indicated  in  the  tribute  already  quoted. 
In  the  autumn  following  his  graduation  he  entered  the 
Harvard  Law  School.  While  in  Cambridge  he  received 
notice  of  his  appointment  as  a  Rhodes  Scholar  at  Oxford, 
but  declined  it  by  reason  of  the  war  already  raging  in 
Europe.  When  his  own  country  entered  the  fight,  he 
completed  his  second  year  as  a  student  of  law.  On  Sep- 
tember 19,  1917,  as  other  young  men  of  New  Cumberland, 
drafted  for  service,  were  leaving  for  camp,  Stewart,  not 
yet  called  before  the  draft  board,  presented  himself  for 
service  and  was  placed  in  charge  of  a  local  contingent. 
He  reported  for  service  at  Camp  Lee,  Virginia,  was  soon 
appointed  a  sergeant,  and  later  promoted  to  top  sergeant. 
On  November  10  he  was  transferred  from  the  155th  Depot 
Brigade  at  Camp  Lee  to  the  1st  Provisional  Recruit  Bat- 
talion. On  February  27,  1918,  he  sailed  for  France  as  a 
member  of  a  picked  company  of  replacements.  Arriving 
there  March  11,  he  was  immediately  appointed  sergeant 



in  the  163d  Infantry,  41st  Division,  from  which  he  was 
transferred  to  the  42d  ("Rainbow")  Division  as  sergeant 
of  Company  G,  167th  Infantry. 

After  only  a  month  in  France,  Stewart  was  sent  into 
the  trenches  on  the  Champagne  front.  He  was  killed  at 
his  post  by  a  high  explosive  shell  at  12.15  in  the  morning 
of  July  12,  1918,  thirty  minutes  after  the  beginning  of  a 
fierce  defensive  engagement  lasting  for  several  days. 

Of  573  soldiers  from  Hancock  County,  West  Virginia, 
Sergeant  Stewart  was  the  only  one  killed  in  action.  By 
every  token  of  promise  he  was  one  of  those  from  whom  a 
life  of  leadership  might  have  been  expected. 



Law  School  1914-15 

JjORN  at  Milwaukee,  Wisconsin,  September  21,  1890, 
Walton  Kimball  Smith  was  the  son  of  Amos  Appleton 
Lawrence  Smith  and  Frances  Louise  (Brown)  Smith.  His 
father's  name  recalls  an  interesting  episode  linking  a 
generous  son  of  Harvard  with  the  cause  of  education  in 
Wisconsin.  In  1845  Amos  Adams  Lawrence  (Harvard, 
1835),  the  father  of  Bishop  Lawrence,  became  interested 



in  a  Protestant  Episcopal  missionary  to  the  Oneida  Indians 
in  Wisconsin,  the  Rev.  Eleazer  WiUiams,  who  was  soon  to 
attract  much  attention  as  a  possible  claimant  to  the 
romantic  title  of  the  "lost  Dauphin,"  the  missing  son  of 
Marie  Antoinette.  Through  trying  to  help  this  clergyman 
out  of  financial  difficulties,  Mr.  Lawrence  found  himself 
the  reluctant  owner  of  more  than  five  thousand  acres  of 
land  in  the  Fox  River  Valley  in  Wisconsin,  which  had 
belonged  to  the  missionary.  In  order  to  turn  this  property 
to  some  useful  account  its  new  owner  interested  himself 
in  a  project  to  establish  an  institution  of  learning  upon  it* 
A  Methodist  minister,  Reeder  Smith  —  whose  wife  was  a 
member  of  the  Boston  family  of  Kimball  —  looked  it  over 
and  reported  that  a  tract  of  land  further  up  the  Fox  River 
than  the  Williams  tract  was  better  adapted  to  the  pur- 
poses of  a  college.  Accordingly  this  land  was  acquired, 
and  the  town  of  Appleton,  Wisconsin,  named  for  Samuel 
Appleton,  of  Boston,  who  joined  with  Amos  A.  Lawrence 
in  the  enterprise,  was  laid  out,  and  in  it  Lawrence  Uni- 
versity was  established.  A  son  of  the  Rev.  Reeder  Smith, 
who  settled  there,  was  the  first  white  child  born  in  the 
place,  and  received  the  name  of  Amos  Appleton  Lawrence 
Smith.  That  the  name  of  his  son  should  be  inscribed,  more 
than  half  a  century  later,  upon  the  Harvard  Roll  of  Honor 
is  one  of  those  circumstances  in  which  the  fitness  of  things 
may  be  traced. 

Walton  Smith  had  his  preparation  for  college  at  the 
Milwaukee  Academy,  the  West  Division  High  School  of 
Milwaukee,  and,  for  the  last  two  years,  at  the  Lawrence- 
ville  (New  Jersey)  School.  His  mother  died  when  he  was 
eleven,  his  father  when  he  was  sixteen.    Through  all  these 



years  of  boyhood  he  spent  the  summers  with  his  family  on 
a  lake  near  Milwaukee,  and  became  an  ardent  student 
of  nature,  especially  of  birds.  He  was  also  a  lover  of 
music,  and  greatly  enjoyed  playing  the  violin  in  school 
musical  clubs. 

From  Lawrenceville  he  entered  Amherst  College,  where 
he  graduated  in  1914.  For  the  following  year  he  was  a 
student  at  the  Harvard  Law  School.  In  the  autumn  of 
1915  he  continued  his  study  of  law  at  the  University  of 
Wisconsin,  and  was  still  there  when  the  United  States 
entered  the  war.  He  registered  for  the  first  draft,  but 
his  order  number  was  so  high  that  he  believed  it  would  be 
at  least  a  year  before  he  could  be  called  into  service. 
While  he  was  an  undergraduate  at  Amherst  he  had  ex- 
perienced one  flight  in  an  aeroplane  which  he  remembered 
with  vivid  pleasure.  He  therefore  offered  himself  promptly 
for  the  Aviation  Corps  examinations.  To  his  great  dis- 
appointment, and  his  surprise  —  for  he  had  taken  a  suc- 
cessful part  in  school  athletics  —  he  failed  to  pass  the 
physical  tests.  In  his  desire  to  reach  the  front  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment,  he  then  sailed  for  France  with 
the  hope  of  joining  the  American  Field  Service.  On  reach- 
ing Paris  he  learned  that  it  was  still  possible  for  an 
American  to  engage  in  aviation  with  the  British.  Shortly 
before  Christmas,  1917,  he  passed  his  examination  for  the 
Royal  Air  Force,  and  became  a  cadet  in  training  as  an 
aviation  observer. 

This  training  took  place  in  England.  A  letter  written 
by  Smith  to  his  brother  on  July  7,  1918,  after  his  ground 
tests  were  completed  and  he  had  been  moved  to  No.  1 
Observers'  School  of  Aerial  Gunnery,  describes  the  sen- 



sations  experienced  in  his  first  "joy-ride."  "The  pilot," 
he  says,  "was  an  officer  instructor  with  a  son  eighteen 
years  old,  so  I  was  n't  stunted  very  much,  as  the  expres- 
sion goes."  The  same  letter  tells  of  "firing  the  gun 
camera  and  taking  aerial  photos,"  and  reveals  a  lively 
interest  in  his  work  and  an  intention  to  become  a  pilot 
himself  before  long.  His  commission  as  lieutenant  was 
nearly  won  when,  on  July  16,  flying  with  a  pilot  at  New 
Romney,  Kent,  his  reputation  as  "  a  keen,  industrious  and 
enthusiastic  pupil"  well  established,  he  met  his  death  in 
an  accident  due  to  an  error  of  judgment  on  the  part  of 
the  pilot.    Both  men  were  instantly  killed. 

Smith's  body  was  brought  to  the  United  States  and 
buried  in  the  Forest  Home  Cemetery  at  Milwaukee. 



Class  of  1909 

Hugh  Charles  Blanchard  was  born  at  Charles- 
town,  Massachusetts,  May  9,  1886,  the  elder  son  of  John 
Henry  Blanchard,  a  Boston  lawyer,  and  Mary  Ann  (Kelly) 
Blanchard.  He  made  his  preparation  for  college  at  the 
Roxbury  Latin  School  and  Phillips-Exeter  Academy.  At 
Exeter  he  distinguished  himself  in  athletics  by  winning  the 
600-yard  dash  and  becoming  a  member  of  the  champion 
1905  football  team.  At  Harvard  he  played  on  the  second 
football  team  and  his  senior  class  team.  He  also  excelled 
in  putting  the  16-pound  shot.  While  still  in  college,  he 
enlisted  in  the  Massachusetts  cavalry,  in  which  he  after- 
wards received  a  commission  as  second  lieutenant  in  the 
Machine  Gun  Company  of  the  8th  Regiment,  M.  V.  M. 



With  the  organization  he  served  on  the  Mexican  border 
from  June  to  November,  1916, 

Meanwhile  he  had  spent  the  first  three  years  after  his 
graduation  from  college  as  a  student  in  the  Harvard  Law 
School,  from  which  he  received  the  degree  of  LL.B.  in 
1912.  On  his  admission  to  the  bar,  he  associated  himself 
with  his  father's  office,  and  duly  became  the  junior  mem- 
ber of  the  law  firm  of  Blanchard,  Leventale,  and  Blanch- 
ard.  On  June  23,  1916,  he  was  married  to  Mignon  Von 
der  Luft. 

Blanchard's  service  on  the  Mexican  border  equipped 
him  with  a  valuable  experience,  not  only  in  the  practice 
of  commanding,  but  as  a  "summary  judge"  and  a  director 
of  the  purchasing  department  of  his  regiment.  On  April 
11,  1917,  he  was  promoted  first  lieutenant,  and  remained 
a  member  of  the  8th  Massachusetts  until  it  was  federalized 
and  incorporated  in  the  26th  Division.  In  this  unit  he 
was  assigned,  August  5,  to  Company  B,  104th  Infantry. 
On  October  4  he  sailed  for  France,  and  later  was  trans- 
ferred to  Company  L. 

The  personal  record  of  his  service  abroad,  involving  par- 
ticipation in  engagements  of  the  Chemin  des  Dames 
sector,  La  Heine  sector  (Seicheprey  and  Apremont),  and 
at  Chateau-Thierry,  is  meagre.  But  the  Tenth  Anni- 
versary Report  of  his  class  provides  a  striking  illustration 
of  his  quality  as  a  soldier. 

On  one  occasion  he  was  sent  out  in  command  of  twenty  men, 
Americans  and  French,  at  Chemin  des  Dames,  to  reconnoitre 
the  enemy's  line.  While  engaged  in  this  he  located  the  work 
which  later  proved  to  be  the  emplacement  of  the  long-distance 
gun  which  was  used  in  shelling  Paris.    He  was  discovered  by  the 



enemy,  and  a  general  alarm  was  given,  causing  a  fierce  firing 
by  both  sides,  and  although  greatly  outnumbered,  with  his  de- 
tail in  danger  of  annihilation,  he  brought  safely  back  all  but 
five  of  his  men.  After  the  firing  had  ceased  and  an  unsuccessful 
search  had  been  made  for  the  missing,  he  was  given,  at  his 
earnest  request,  the  privilege  of  again  searching  for  them.  The 
search  was  conducted  in  broad  daylight  and  all  were  saved. 

The  incident  thus  described  is  related,  in  slightly  dif- 
ferent terms,  in  a  pamphlet,  "In  Memoriam:  A  Tribute 
to  Lieutenant  Blanchard."  From  its  pages  the  following 
passages,  bearing  upon  his  service  in  France,  may  well 
be  copied  in  further  illustration  of  his  soldierly  char- 
acteristics : 

With  his  whole  energy,  which  was  unusual,  he  devoted  him- 
self to  the  hard  and  exacting  duty  of  preparation  —  that  most 
important  work.  Without  going  into  details  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  he  learned  it  thoroughly,  and  he  became  ready  and  fit  for 
what  was  to  be  required  of  him.  To  him  the  work  was  always 
serious  although  performed  with  a  cheerful  ardor  which,  as  one 
of  the  officers  expressed  it,  was  contagious.  He  thoroughly 
understood  and  appreciated  his  responsibilities  and  throughout 
his  service  fully  discharged  them.  Studious  and  thoughtful 
when  not  actively  engaged,  his  well  directed  energy  in  action 
was  conspicuous.  Although  while  in  France  he  was  given  op- 
portunity to  return  to  the  United  States  as  an  instructor,  he 
declined.  For  he  felt  that  his  duty  was  at  the  front.  His  su- 
perior officers  were  highly  pleased  with  this  decision  of  his.  They 
recognized  his  worth  and  foresaw  in  him  the  successful  soldier 
which  he  subsequently  proved  himself  to  be  by  his  intelligence 
and  well  performed  acts.  The  only  anxiety  felt  by  them  was 
caused  by  his  overwork.  Always  ready,  seeking  rather  than 
waiting,  he  thus  created  in  them  a  feeling  of  confidence  which 
was  never  disappointed  but  without  exception  fully  justified. 



And  so  when  the  preparatory  training  was  over  and  the  regi- 
ment took  up  its  active  work  he  was  ready  for  whatever  was 
asked  of  or  suggested  to  him.  His  incessant  attention  to  the 
details  brought  valuable  results.  Few  of  those  who  did  not 
participate  in  the  operations  in  France  can  realize  the  difficul- 
ties confronting  the  soldiers  engaged  in  the  many  and  varied 
tasks  imposed  upon  them.  Guarding  trenches,  patrolling,  mak- 
ing reconnaissances,  feeling  their  way  over  unknown  ground, 
ascertaining  the  location  of  the  enemy,  their  artillery  and  ma- 
chine gun  positions,  their  infantry  lines,  and  their  searches  made 
in  the  night  time  when  it  was  most  difficult  to  avoid  becoming 
lost  and  getting  out  of  touch  with  their  own  commands  — 
these  undertakings  exacted  the  highest  skill,  intelligence,  and 
courage.  They  were  fraught  with  ever  present  danger.  Many 
times  he  proved  himself  equal  to  this  work. 

He  was  successful  in  reconnoitering  dangerous  woods  which 
few  cared  to  explore.  In  these  and  other  ways  he  won  the  hearty 
approval  and  praise  of  regular  army  and  volunteer  officers.  He 
showed  the  men  how  to  patrol,  and  to  discover  and  avoid  traps 
which  abounded  in  "No  Man's  Land."  This  tract  which  had 
been  considered  as  enemy  ground,  through  his  efforts  and  the 
work  of  others,  became  allied  territory.  He  continually  studied 
whatever  maps  could  be  obtained  and  acquired  an  intelligent 
understanding  of  the  land  so  far  as  that  could  be  done.  For  he 
seemed  to  have  the  topographical  instinct,  a  quality  so  indis- 
pensable to  a  successful  campaigner.  It  has  been  said  that  he 
was  modest  and  unassuming  in  his  ways,  yet  he  had  a  singular 
influence  over  the  men.  The  reason  for  this  was  undoubtedly 
that  in  dangerous  emergencies  he  always  went  himself  and  did 
not  send  someone  else.  As  the  great  United  States  general  in 
the  Civil  War  said  of  one  of  his  gallant  commanders,  "With 
him  it  was  'Come,  boys,'  not  'Go.'"  So  it  came  about  that 
when  he  was  in  command  the  men  did  not  wait  to  be  detailed 
but  volunteered.  He  thus  had  that  influence  over  others  which 
forms  so  great  a  part  of  the  necessary  qualities  of  a  successful 



commanding  officer.  We  are  not  surprised  when  told  that  those 
under  him  were  in  fine  condition  and  under  the  best  control, 
and  also  that  it  was  said  of  him  that  if  spared  he  surely  would 
rise  in  rank,  for  he  had  the  necessary  gifts  of  a  successful  leader. 

But  this  was  not  to  be.  For  after  the  troops  relieved  the 
Marines  and  the  battle  of  Belleau  Woods  began,  when  deployed 
in  line  of  battle,  they  moved  forward,  he  fell  mortally  wounded 
leading  his  command  against  the  enemy.  Who  can  repress  the 
feeling  of  pride,  melancholy  though  it  be,  when  such  an  end 
comes  to  one  who  has  won  the  respect  and  affection  of  all  who 
knew  him? 

It  was  on  July  18,  1918,  that  he  fell. 



Class  of  1916 

1 N  the  sketch  of  John  Andrew  Doherty  in  the  Memorial 
Report  of  the  Class  of  1916,  these  significant  words  about 
him  are  found:  "It  is  a  matter  of  history  that  no  small 
amount  of  success  which  our  football  teams  obtained  dur- 
ing our  undergraduate  life  was  due  to  the  undaunted  and 
self-sacrificing  efforts  of  the  second  team.  'Jack's'  leader- 
ship in  this  regard  is  well  remembered,  and  his  valuable 
service  as  a  member  of  the  Varsity  team  during  his  senior 
year  in  college  was  but  the  natural  outcome  of  his  in- 

The  young  lieutenants  of  the  American  army,  with 
their  months  of  obscure  and  arduous  training  followed  in 
many  instances  by  mere  moments  of  battle,  might  well 



figure  in  a  parable  of  the  second  team  and  the  brief  glory 
of  a  swift  decisive  Varsitj^  game.  To  such  a  parable 
Doherty's  record  would  lend  itself. 

He  was  born  at  Roxbury,  Massachusetts,  September 
4,  1894,  a  son  of  Daniel  Francis  Doherty  and  Augusta 
Bridget  (Williams)  Doherty.  His  preparation  for  college 
was  made  at  the  Boston  Latin  School,  where  he  was  prom- 
inent in  athletics.  At  Harvard  he  made  an  important  con- 
tribution to  the  football  triumphs  of  his  time  by  his  hard 
work  on  the  second  team  in  his  junior  year,  crowned  by  his 
playing  at  quarterback  in  the  final  portion  of  the  game  with 
Yale  in  1915,  when  Harvard  won  a  memorable  victory.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  pursuing  his  studies  with  a  success 
which  enabled  him  to  take  his  degree  of  A.B.  at  the  1916 
midyears.  He  was  a  member  of  the  senior  nominating 
committee  and  of  the  Hasty  Pudding  Club. 

The  Memorial  Report  of  his  class  describes  his  sub- 
sequent activities  as  follows: 

After  his  graduation  Doherty  pursued  an  advanced  course  in 
Sanitary  Engineering  at  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Tech- 
nology. In  the  autumn  of  1916  he  assisted  Dr.  Paul  Withing- 
ton  as  a  backfield  coach  at  the  University  of  Wisconsin.  At 
the  conclusion  of  the  season  he  returned  East  and  was  em- 
ployed in  the  drafting  division  of  the  Stone  and  Webster  En- 
gineering Corporation,  from  which  he  resigned  in  August,  1917, 
to  accept  a  position  as  a  sanitary  engineer  for  the  State  of 
Massachusetts.  Three  weeks  later  he  left  this  position  to 
attend  the  Second  Plattsburg  Officers'  Training  Camp,  from 
which  he  was  commissioned  in  November,  1917,  as  a  first 
lieutenant  (Infantry). 

On  January  12,  1918,  he  sailed  for  France  as  a  casual. 
On  March  25  he  was  assigned  to  Company  1, 18th  Infantry, 



First  Division.  With  this  organization  he  participated  in 
engagements  at  Cantigny,  the  Noyon-Montdidier  defen- 
sive, and  Chateau-Thierry.  He  was  killed  in  action  near 
Soissons  on  July  18. 

In  the  lack  of  personal  detail  concerning  his  service 
abroad  the  comprehending  reader  will  feel  what  is  meant 
in  the  words  of  the  1916  Memorial  Report:  "By  edu- 
cation and  training  Doherty  was  particularly  fitted  to 
serve  his  country  in  the  war  with  Germany  in  many  ways; 
those  who  knew  him,  however,  were  not  surprised  to  hear 
that  'Jack'  had  gone  to  the  front  with  one  of  the  early 
American  infantrv  units." 



Class  of  1916 

The  father,  both  grandfathers,  great-grandfather,  and 
great-great-grandfather  of  Kenneth  EHot  Fuller,  youngest 
son  of  Arthur  Ossoli  Fuller  (Harvard,  '77)  and  Ellen 
(Minot)  Fuller,  born  at  Exeter,  New  Hampshire,  March  9, 
1894,  were  graduates  of  Harvard.  His  grandfather, 
Arthur  Buekminster  Fuller  (Harvard,  '43),  chaplain  of  the 



16th  Massachusetts  Vokinteers,  killed  at  the  Battle  of 
Fredericksburg,  was  a  brother  of  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli. 
Kenneth  Fuller  was  entitled  by  inheritance  to  high  quali- 
ties, and  he  came  to  his  own. 

Except  for  one  year  when  his  family  was  living  in 
Cambridge,  and  he  attended  the  Cambridge  Latin  School, 
his  preparation  for  college  was  made  at  Phillips-Exeter 
Academy,  in  the  New  Hampshire  town  of  which  his 
father,  a  practising  lawyer,  has  long  been  a  valuable  citi- 
zen. He  graduated  at  Exeter  second  in  his  class,  and  came 
to  Harvard,  in  the  autumn  of  1912,  with  a  Teschemacher 
Scholarship.  As  an  undergraduate  he  became  a  member 
of  the  Pierian  Sodality,^  Cercle  Frangais,  Exeter  Club,  and 
Varsity  Club,  the  freshman  cross-country  and  track  teams, 
the  Varsity  cross-country  team  and  track  squad.  From 
college  he  passed  to  the  Law  School,  and  had  not  com- 
pleted his  first  year  (1916-17)  when  the  call  to  arms  and 
his  response  to  it  turned  his  life  from  what  had  seemed  its 
destined  course.  Of  what  he  brought  to  Cambridge,  found 
there,  and  bore  away  with  him,  a  classmate  has  written 
with  sympathy  and  understanding  in  the  Memorial  Report 
of  the  Class  of  1916: 

His  early  years  in  the  country  and  his  interest  in  his  work  at 
school  left  him  with  a  love  for  the  out-of-doors,  and  a  taste  for 
the  best  in  books  and  music.  Throughout  his  years  in  college, 
a  camp  on  the  shores  of  Great  Bay  and  a  farm  in  Marlboro,  New 
Hampshire,  were  the  places  he  sought  most  eagerly  in  vacation; 
in  term  time  he  was  anxious  to  make  the  best  of  his  courses 

1  It  is  significant  of  Fuller's  musical  interest  and  capacity  that  he 
was  afterwards  one  of  a  group  whose  photograph  was  used  as  the  frontis- 
piece of  the  Army  and  Navy  Songboolc. 



and  the  other  intellectual  opportunities  offered  him,  supple- 
menting them  with  independent  reading,  in  which  his  instinct 
for  the  finest  and  most  worth  while  appeared  clearly.  Deter- 
mined to  serve  the  college  in  return  for  its  service  to  him,  he 
worked  faithfully  on  the  cross-country  team,  and  won  his  "H" 
in  his  senior  year.  At  the  same  time  he  gave  his  best  effort  to 
his  other  work,  and  graduated  with  an  A.B.,  cum  lande. 

Through  it  all  he  had  the  attitude  of  a  questioner  and  seeker. 
Nothing  satisfied  him  until  it  was  the  best  and  the  truest  he 
could  achieve.  Many  commonly  accepted  ideas,  in  college  and 
out  of  it,  puzzled  him  as  to  their  real  value,  and  he  eagerly 
questioned  everything  he  undertook  —  every  new  course  and 
every  new  activity — until  he  was  sure  that  he  had  found  some- 
thing he  might  truly  interest  himself  in.  The  result  of  this 
process  was  that  he  acquired  certain  very  definite  ideals  in 
which  his  confidence  was  unshaken  and  to  which  he  steadfastly 

One  of  these  was  his  determination  to  excel  in  some  college 
activity;  another,  his  resolve  to  preserve  his  health  at  its  best,  — ■ 
and  these  two  aims  he  realized  in  his  athletic  accomplishment. 
A  third  of  his  central  ideas  was  to  accept  no  statement,  no 
theory,  and  no  doctrine  until  he  had  assured  himself  of  its 
truth.  This  principle  he  put  into  effect  in  all  his  academic  work, 
with  the  result  that  he  could  never  bring  himself  to  play  the 
parrot  in  an  examination  by  echoing  the  remarks  of  an  instruc- 
tor, unless  he  had  convinced  himself  of  their  truth.  Possibly 
his  marks  suffered  accordingly;  certainly  his  education  profited. 
Add  to  these  aims  and  principles  certain  definite  likes  and  dis- 
likes in  men  and  books,  a  love  for  France  and  her  literature  — 
and  the  main  ideals  to  which  he  was  faithful  are  suggested. 
Beyond  these  he  was  still  in  doubt  as  to  many  problems. 

His  future  course  always  perplexed  him,  but  after  long  dis- 
cussion with  himself,  his  family,  and  his  other  advisers,  he  de- 
termined to  enter  his  father's  profession  of  the  law.  Gradually 
his  first  doubts  and  misgivings  were  replaced  by  a  vision  of  real 



usefulness  in  a  legal  career,  and  he  gave  himself  up  heart  and 
soul  to  his  work. 

Then  came  the  entrance  of  the  United  States  into  the  war, 
and  for  once  he  forgot  all  his  problems  in  the  finding  of  an  ideal 
which  he  could  accept  unhesitatingly,  sure  of  its  righteousness 
—  an  ideal  which  required  no  examination  to  reveal  its  truth. 
Everything  else  faded  out  before  the  problem  of  how  he  could 
best  serve  the  country  and  the  Allies.  For  years  he  had  loved 
the  French  literature  and  spirit,  and  it  had  become  his  cherished 
dream  to  travel  in  France.  For  years  he  had  saved  for  this 
pilgrimage.  Now  that  France  was  in  danger,  his  love  for  what 
she  had  produced  in  art  transformed  itself  into  desire  to  fight 
for  the  maintenance  of  her  national  ideals  and  the  highest 
standards  of  his  own  country. 

Fuller  was  the  better  prepared  to  enter  the  Oflficers' 
Training  Camp  at  Plattsburg  —  which  he  did  in  May, 
1917  ■ — ■  for  his  training  at  the  Plattsburg  camp  of  the 
previous  summer  and  in  the  Harvard  R.  O.  T.  C.  On 
August  15  he  was  commissioned  second  lieutenant  of 
infantry.  From  August  27  to  December  12  he  was  as- 
signed to  the  151st  Depot  Brigade  at  Camp  Devens; 
then  to  the  12th  New  Hampshire  Infantry  at  Camp 
Greene,  Charlotte,  North  Carolina.  In  February  this 
organization  was  designated  the  1st  Army  Headquarters 
Regiment.  On  March  15  it  was  transferred  to  Camp 
Merritt,  New  Jersey,  and  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
having  embarked  at  Hoboken  on  a  transport  that  broke 
down,  and  reembarked  on  another,  it  sailed  for  France. 
Arriving  at  Brest,  April  16,  Fuller  was  immediately  sent 
to  the  Service  of  Supply  Headquarters  at  Tours,  where 
he  was  stationed  as  commanding  officer  of  casuals  and 
judge  advocate  of  a  special  court,  until  June  27.     Here 



he  might  have  remained  indefinitely,  but  for  his  own  feel- 
ing that  his  place  was  at  the  front.  At  Tours  he  occupied 
a  post  of  responsibility.  His  work  was  that  of  his  chosen 
profession,  the  law;  he  lived  in  safety  and  comfort,  among 
friends.  A  position  in  the  Judge  Advocate  Department 
involving  legal  employment  of  a  congenial  kind  and  an 
opportunity  to  travel  throughout  his  beloved  France  was 
offered  to  him.  His  superiors  urged  him  to  accept  it,  but 
he  declined,  insisting  upon  more  active  service,  if  only 
because  the  casualty  lists,  headed  "second  lieutenants 
except  where  otherwise  noted,"  demonstrated  the  grave 
need  of  men  trained,  as  he  had  been,  for  infantry  work. 
Writing  to  his  father  of  his  decision,  and  expressing  the 
fear  that  it  might  not  meet  with  his  approval,  he  said: 

It  was  not  easy  to  refuse  such  an  opportunity,  but  I  have  come 
over  here  trained  to  fight  in  the  infantry.  I  don't  think  of  the 
future  in  terms  of  civilian  life  except  in  vague  dreams.  And  if 
I  am  to  go  back  to  civilian  life,  my  self-respect  demands  that 
I  have  a  thoroughly  honorable  and  proud  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, —  "What  did  you  do  in  the  great  war?"  I  have  acquired 
a  strong  dislike  for  the  young,  healthy  emhusque,  and  it  would  be 
a  terrible  wrench  for  me  suddenly  to  become  one.  I  think  that 
the  second  lieutenant  who  goes  "over  the  top"  successfully, 
displays  about  the  finest  qualities  a  man  can  have,  and  for  a 
year  my  mind  has  been  set  on  being  put  to  the  test  to  see  if  I 
had  a  share  of  those  qualities.  .  .  .  You  may  say  that  there 
are  a  hundred  times  more  men  who  can  lead  a  platoon  "over 
the  top"  than  there  are  that  can  do  such  specialized  work  as  the 
Judge  Advocate  business;  but  that  is  only  an  optimistic  avowal 
that  mankind  is  well  equipped  with  the  finer  qualities.  Or  you 
may  point  out  that  it  requires  ten  men  behind  the  lines  over 
here  for  every  one  at  the  front.  The  answer  to  that  is,  "Who 
would  not  rather  be  that  one  than  one  of  the  ten?" 



It  was  thus  at  his  own  request  that  he  was  assigned,  on 
June  27,  to  Company  C,  23d  Infantry,  2d  Division,  which 
he  joined  June  30  on  the  front  line  opposite  Vaux,  near 
Chateau-Thierry.  On  the  eve  of  this  move  he  wrote 
home:  "I  have  never  been  happier  since  I  joined  the 
Army.  I  am  going  to  the  front  where  men  do  the  real, 
honest-to-goodness  work  of  the  war,  —  where  they  sweat 
and  swear,  but  go  to  sleep  (when  they  can)  with  easy 
consciences  and  proud  souls."  The  storming  of  Vaux 
took  place  on  the  day  after  his  joining  the  23d,  to  which 
he  was  attached  for  the  crowded,  brief  remainder  of  his 
life.  Through  this  time  the  regiment  was  on  the  front 
line  or  in  support,  taking  part  in  the  semi-open  warfare 
in  which  the  2d  Division  was  engaged.  On  July  6,  at 
Triangle  Farm,  Fuller  was  placed  in  command  of  the 
senior  platoon  of  his  company,  and  held  this  command 
until  he  was  killed.  It  was  not  a  time  for  letter- writing, 
but  from  the  thick  of  the  struggle  came  these  significant 
words : 

How  often  you  hear  at  home  that  there  is  no  glory  or  romance 
in  war,  and  that  war  is  hell.  You  believe  it,  and  yet  the  signifi- 
cance of  it  never  comes  over  you  till  you  get  out  here  and  see  for 
yourself.  How  the  human  race  could  have  brought  such  hor- 
rors upon  itself  is  beyond  comprehension.  All  man's  philosophy 
and  conception  of  human  nature  breaks  down.  We  have  got 
to  do  everything  in  our  power  to  bring  about  permanent  peace 
and  rationalism  between  peoples.  The  first  and  most  horrible 
step  is  to  put  down  the  nation  that  is  opposed  to  such  principles. 

And  in  the  course  of  the  final  fortnight  of  his  life  he 
wrote  this  letter: 



Out  Thehe,  God  Knows  When. 
We  lose  track  of  the  date,  but  it  must  be  about  July  13. 

Dear  Father,  — 

Do  you  remember  that  "Kapo"  sleeping-bag  you  helped  me 
to  get  from  Read's  in  Boston?  Well,  I  slept  in  it  last  night  and 
am  lying  on  it  now,  and  I  feel  as  if  it  were  a  life-saver.  As  long 
as  I  can  keep  it  with  me  and  keep  it  dry,  I  shall  be  pretty  well 
off.  Night  before  last  I  made  my  bed  at  1  a.m.  on  the  cold,  wet 
ground,  and  it  consisted  of  a  poor  piece  of  canvas,  a  raincoat, 
and  one  blanket.  That  is  the  way  I  have  been  living  and  it  is 
not  refreshing. 

You  and  I  have  read  a  lot  about  life  at  the  front,  and  we  have 
imagined  that  we  had  a  good  conception  of  what  it  was  like. 
We  had  not.  And  you  will  not  get  it.  It  is  one  of  the  things 
that  needs  to  be  experienced  to  be  appreciated.  No  amount  of 
description  would  help. 

Conditions  where  I  am  happen  to  be  very  unusual.  We  are 
waging  unsettled,  semi-open  warfare  and  have  to  jump  from 
here  to  there  and  all  around.  It  is  a  regular  gypsy  existence. 
By  a  great  stroke  of  good  luck  we  have  had  fair  weather,  or 
heaven  only  knows  how  we  should  have  stood  it.  The  stars 
have  been  my  roof  generally.  Our  life  is  irregular  in  the  high- 
est degree.  There  is  no  telling  when  we  shall  sleep,  when  we 
shall  eat,  or  when  we  shall  fight.  Of  course,  we  move  during 
the  night. 

A  few  days  ago  I  was  separated  from  my  battalion  for  reasons 
I  cannot  explain,  and  I  attached  myself  to  Headquarters  Com- 
pany for  the  time  being.  I  had  lost  my  pack,  but  the  first  night 
a  private  lent  his  blanket  to  me  and  another  officer,  while  he 
doubled  up  with  a  comrade.  When  daylight  came  I  found  I 
w^as  lying  close  to  an  old  friend  and  classmate,  Dave  Loring 
(Twitchell's  roommate).  I  stuck  with  him  for  the  next  day. 
He  came  over  wdth  this  outfit  right  after  Plattsburg,  is  now  a 
first  lieutenant,  and  going  strong.  It  sometimes  makes  me  sigh 
when  I  see  what  I  might  have  done  if  I  had  started  on  a  different 



course.  Still  I  have  had  a  rich  and  varied  career.  I  am  glad  I 
did  not  remain  at  Devens,  no  matter  how  much  promotion  I 
might  have  got.  Those  officers  in  the  Depot  Brigade  must  be 
pretty  disheartened  now.  I  am  in  a  good  place  now  if  I  can 
only  pick  up  the  necessary  knowledge.  I  doubt  if  there  is  a 
better  fighting  regiment  in  the  Army.  Our  colonel  is  a  wonder, 
I  don't  suppose  he  will  remain  a  colonel  much  longer. 

If  I  stick  with  this  outfit,  get  a  lot  of  experience,  see  a  lot  of 
action,  and  stay  above  ground,  there  is  the  possibility  that  some 
day  I  might  go  back  to  the  States  as  an  instructor.  That  is,  of 
course,  only  a  vague  dream,  but  it  is  something  to  think  of. 

When  I  get  gloomy  about  the  war,  there  is  nothing  helps  me 
so  much  as  to  find  some  poilus  and  talk  with  them.  They  are 
splendid.  Though  they  have  suffered  so  terribly,  they  are  full 
of  fight  and  hope,  and  confident  that  the  Boche  cannot  hold 
out  much  longer.  They  have  nothing  but  praise  for  the  Ameri- 
cans, and  the  word  they  use  mostly  in  describing  them  is 
cran.  I  guess  you  know  what  it  means,  a  sort  of  dare-devil 
elan,  I  think. 

My  personal  opinion  is  that  our  soldiers  are  the  best  in  the 
world,  and  that  if  we  only  had  the  technique,  organization, 
liaison,  and  what-not,  of  the  French,  we  could  lick  the  Germans 
tomorrow.  That  has  got  to  come  slowly.  When  it  arrives  and 
we  can  roll  forward  like  a  huge,  well-oiled  machine,  you  may 
look  for  peace. 

A  poilu  told  me  an  incident  last  night  that  delighted  him. 
He  was  in  the  thick  of  some  of  the  hot  fighting  done  by  the 
Americans.  We  got  to  a  point  where  the  thing  to  do  was  dig 
in  and  hold  on.  The  Americans  dug  absurd  little  dugouts, 
that  would  not  protect  against  much  more  than  sunlight.  This 
poilu  was  much  disturbed  and  told  them  they  must  dig,  dig, 
dig.  The  only  response  he  got,  according  to  his  story,  was, 
"Ah!  nous  ne  sommes  pas  ici  pour  faire  des  irons,  mais  pour 
faire  la  guerre."  (Oh,  we  are  not  here  to  dig  caves,  but  to 



"VMien  I  joined  Loring  the  other  day.  I  hiked  along  with  liis 
platoon  that  night,  and  at  about  midnight  we  drew  into  a  pretty 
little  village  where  we  were  to  be  billeted.  The  soldiers  went 
in  the  barns  and  lots.  Loring  and  I  had  a  room  apiece,  and 
we  actually  found  some  clean  old  homespun  sheets,  and  crawled 
into  the  big  old  beds.  I  took  off  every  stitch  of  clothing  for 
the  first  time  in  ten  days.  It  felt  fine  and  I  shall  not  forget 
the  comfort  of  that  bed.  In  the  morning,  we  found  we  were 
in  the  midst  of  a  most  beautiful  piece  of  landscape.  —  a  charm- 
ing fertile  valley.  We  went  to  the  river  (very  celebrated  it  is), 
and  had  a  glorious  swim.  I  have  never  felt  cleaner  than  I  did 
then.  My  only  trouble  was  that  I  had  no  clean  underclothing. 
I  have  since  then  obtained  some  and  am  tolerably  well  off. 

I  rejoined  my  company  on  foot  that  night,  and  here  we  are 
out  in  the  woods,  doing  I  cannot  tell  you  what,  until  I  cannot 
tell  you  when. 

Some  day  I  should  like  to  indicate  for  you  on  a  map  just 
what  took  place  and  where.  Some  day  also  I  should  like  to  see 
some  of  the  letters  for  me  that  must  be  lying  around  somewhere 
in  France. 

Meanwhile  I  carry  on. 



Co.  C,  '2Sd  IXF.Os-TRY. 

Fuller's  death  in  action  occurred  at  Vaux  Castille.  Julv 
18,  1918.  while  he  was  leading  a  party  of  about  ten  of  his 
men  in  the  final  rush  of  a  successful  attack  upon  a  nest 
of  machine  guns  which  had  held  up  the  advance  of  his 
company  in  the  American  drive  upon  the  western  (Sois- 
sons)  side  of  the  ''^Nlarne  Salient." 

Vaux  Castille  is  merely  a  cluster  of  perhaps  a  dozen 
peasant  cottages,  on  the  western  edge  of  a  deep,  wooded 
ra%'ine.  almost  m  the  outskirts  of  Merzv.  eight  to  ten 



miles  south  of  Soissons.  This  ravine  and  wood  the  Ger- 
mans had  strengthened  with  machine  guns  cunningly  con- 
cealed and  so  placed  that  every  approach  to  any  one 
"nest"  was  commanded  by  the  fire  from  another.  As 
the  Americans  were  not  adequately  provided  with  ma- 
chine guns  or  hand  grenades,  and  had  only  a  few  auto- 
matic rifles,  the  machine  gun  nests  had  to  be  taken  with 
rifle  and  pistol.  The  23d,  moreover,  had  spent  the  previ- 
ous night  in  making  its  way,  in  a  pouring  rain,  through 
the  maze  of  the  Villers-Cotterets  forest,  reaching  the 
"jumping-off-place"  and  getting  into  position  just  as  the 
barrage  opened;  it  had  advanced  several  kilometres  be- 
fore reaching  Vaux  Castille,  and  naturally  was  not  in  the 
best  of  condition  for  hand-to-hand  fighting.  Nevertheless, 
it  won  its  objective. 

Colonel  Bailey  of  the  loth  Field  Artillery,  which  fol- 
lowed the  ^Sd  Infantry,  gave  directions  for  the  burial  of 
Lieutenant  Fuller,  and  afterwards  wrote  to  his  father: 

The  drive  southwest  of  Soissons  (Vaux  Castille  and  Vierzy) 
was  the  "Antietam"  of  the  war.  The  23d  and  9th  Infantry 
made  a  record  that  day  that  will  live  in  history.  Only  Ameri- 
cans like  your  son  could  have  driven  the  enemy  from  the  heights 
across  those  ravines.  It  was  terrible,  but  it  was  magnificent. 
Your  son  died  in  the  lead  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine.  .  .  .  He 
was  one  of  the  brave  fellows  who  led  his  men  so  rapidly,  and 
smashed  through  the  Hun  lines  with  such  dash  and  vigor  that 
I  was  compelled  to  move  my  batteries  up  five  different  times 
that  first  day  in  order  to  fire  safely  over  them.  Theirs  was  a 
magnificent  accomplishment  because  it  was  the  beginning  of 
the  end  of  the  war. 

^Mien  the  23d  Regiment  was  relieved,  on  the  night  of 
the  next  day  (July  19),  it  had  only  37  officers  and  1-478 



enlisted  men  left,  out  of  99  officers  and  3400  enlisted  men; 
it  had  captured  75  officers  and  2100  men  from  eleven 
different  German  regiments  and  taken  two  batteries  of 
150  mm.  field  guns,  one  battery  of  210  mm.,  about  100 
machine  guns,  and  15,000  rounds  of  77  mm.  ammunition. 
On  the  recommendation  of  the  commander  of  Company 
C,  Lieutenant  M.  G.  Griffin,  afterwards  killed  in  the 
Argonne,  Fuller  received  a  posthumous  award  of  the  Dis- 
tinguished Service  Cross  with  the  following  citation: 

Second  Lieutenant  Kenneth  E.  Fuller,  for  extraordinary 
heroism  in  action  near  Vaux  Castille,  France,  July  18,  1918. 
When  his  company  was  temporarily  halted  by  heavy  machine 
gun  fire,  2d  Lieutenant  Fuller  personally  led  a  group  of  ten 
men  in  an  attack  on  the  machine  gun  position.  He  was  killed 
while  leading  this  attack,  but  due  to  his  heroic  example  the 
enemy  position  was  captured  and  his  company  was  able  to  con- 
tinue its  advance. 

He  also  received  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  awarded  in  these 
terms : 

Le  18  juillet  1918,  pres  de  Vaux  Castille,  a  fait  preuve  d'une 
grande  hraroure  en  conduisant  un  assaut  sur  un  nid  de  mitrail- 
leuses en  face  de  lui.     Tue  dans  cette  attaque. 

Further  honor  of  a  sort  rarely  bestowed  upon  one  so 
young  and  low  in  military  rank  was  the  naming  of  a 
temporary  camp  at  the  American  S.  O.  S.  Headquarters 
at  Tours,  "Camp  Fuller." 

In  August,  1920,  several  large  piles  of  large-calibre  Ger- 
man and  Austrian  shells,  still  unexploded,  were  still  to  be 
seen  in  the  Vaux  Castille  ravine.  The  ground  in  many 
places  was  fairly  littered  with  rifle  and  machine  gun  car- 



tridges,  exploded  or  still  "alive."  Most  of  the  buildings 
of  the  hamlet  were  in  ruins,  but  some  had  been  repaired 
and  reinhabited. 

The  proprietor  of  a  little  garden,  at  the  crest  of  the 
ravine,  where  eight  Americans  were  buried  in  three  graves 
at  the  time  of  the  fight,  pointed  out  the  places.  The 
bodies  had  been  removed,  but  search  of  what  had  been 
Fuller's  grave  revealed  a  few  scraps  of  clothing  and  equip- 
ment, and  two  helmets,  one  pierced  by  a  machine  gun 



Law  School  1915-17 

X  ROCTOR  Calvin  Gilson,  born  at  DeKalb,  New 
York,  February  18,  1891,  a  son  of  Jared  S.  Gilson,  came 
to  the  Harvard  Law  School  in  the  autumn  of  1915,  hav- 
ing graduated  in  that  year  from  St.  Lawrence  University 
of  Canton,  New  York,  with  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of 
Science.  At  St.  Lawrence  he  had  been  prominent  in 
athletics,  especiallj^  football,  in  which  he  played  guard  on 
the  college  team.  There  also  he  become  a  member  of  the 
Phi  Sigma  Kappa  fraternity. 

At  Harvard  he  pursued  his  law  studies  until  May, 
1917,  when  he  entered  the  Officers'  Training  Camp  at 
Plattsburg.  On  August  15  he  was  commissioned  second 
lieutenant,  infantry,  and   assigned   to    Company  K,  9th 



Infantry,  2d  Division.  Between  this  time  and  his  sail- 
ing for  France  with  the  "Fighting  Ninth,"  he  was  married 
to  Marjorie  Zoe  Phillips,  of  Carthage,  New  York,  a  former 
student  at  St.  Lawrence  LTniversity. 

In  France  he  was  promoted  first  lieutenant,  March  23, 
1918.  He  took  part  in  engagements  of  the  Toul  and  Troyon 
sectors,  the  Aisne  defensive,  Chateau-Thierry,  and  the 
Marne-Aisne  offensive.  On  June  12,  1918,  in  response  to 
the  first  request  for  military  information  from  the  Harvard 
War  Records  Office,  he  wrote:  "My  company  has  been 
once  cited  by  the  French  for  distinguished  service."  It 
should  be  noted  also  that  Lieutenant  Gilson  was  chosen 
to  represent  his  company'  in  the  parade  of  American  troops 
in  Paris  on  July  4,  1918. 

On  July  18  he  was  killed  in  action  near  Longpoint,  not 
far  from  Soissons.  With  his  captain  and  five  other  men 
he  had  become  separated  from  his  company.  All  of  his 
companions  were  wounded.  After  they  had  lain  concealed 
in  a  ravine  for  forty-eight  hours  without  food,  Gilson  vol- 
unteered to  bring  help.  His  body  was  found  afterwards 
near  the  edge  of  a  wheat  field  just  outside  the  ravine. 

A  few  days  before  his  death  he  had  received  notice  that 
he  was  to  be  promoted  to  a  captaincy. 



Class  of  1918 

\Jrville  Parker  Johnson,  born  in  Dulutli,  Min- 
nesota, June  10,  1895,  while  his  father  was  in  the  min- 
istry and  serving  a  church  in  Duluth,  was  the  son  of 
Charles  Henry  Johnson  (Harvard,  '02)  and  Elvina  (Peter- 
son) Johnson,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  O.  P.  Peterson  of 
Brooklyn,    New    York.      His    mother    died    in    Albany, 



February  29,  1908.  His  father,  long  identified  with 
prison  and  reformatory  work,  has  been  Secretary  of  the 
New  York  State  Board  of  Charities  since  September, 

Johnson  graduated  from  the  Albany  Academy  in  1914. 
He  was  an  officer  in  the  battalion  of  that  school,  and  while 
sergeant  won  the  sergeant's  medal  for  proficiency  in 
drilling.  He  entered  Harvard  College  in  the  fall  of  1914, 
and  soon  afterwards  became  a  member  of  the  National 
Guard  of  Massachusetts  by  joining  in  the  fonnation  of  a 
machine  gun  company  in  the  8th  Massachusetts  Regi- 
ment. At  college  he  belonged  to  the  Sigma  Alpha  Epsilon 
fraternity,  and  played  the  French  horn  in  the  Harvard 
Regiment  band.  His  enthusiasm  for  military  matters 
was  great,  and  when  the  Mexican  trouble  came  in  the 
summer  of  1916  he  went  with  his  regiment  to  the  border 
as  first  sergeant  of  his  company.  While  there  he  was  ap- 
pointed second  lieutenant,  but,  owing  to  certain  rules  as 
to  length  of  service  and  age,  the  appointment  had  to  be 
changed  by  the  captain.  He  returned  to  college  in  Decem- 
ber, 1916,  and  made  up  his  studies.  In  April,  1917,  he 
was  elected  second  lieutenant  of  his  company  and  quali- 
fied, receiving  his  appointment  from  the  state,  April  15. 

When  war  with  Germany  was  declared,  he  was  not  only 
active  in  recruiting  among  Harvard  men  but  went  from 
shop  to  shop  in  the  manufacturing  towns  about  Boston 
urging  men  to  volunteer  and  not  wait  to  be  drafted  into 
service.  His  regiment  went  early  in  the  summer  of  1917 
to  Camp  Bartlett,  Westfield,  Massachusetts,  and  on 
August  29,  1917,  he  was  assigned  to  the  Headquarters 
Company.    The  organization  had  been  federalized  July  25, 



1917.  When  it  was  about  to  embark  for  France  he  was 
transferred,  September  26,  to  Company  B,  103d  Machine 
Gun  Battahon  —  the  new  designation  of  his  unit  —  com- 
posed of  men  from  Maine,  Connecticut  and  Vermont. 
He  left  camp  October  2,  1917,  and  sailed  from  New  York 
on  the  Cedric  October  4,  arriving  in  Liverpool  October  17, 
and  at  Havre  October  21. 

During  the  training  period  he  was  in  charge  of  various 
billets.  He  went  into  the  trenches  early  in  1918,  and 
shared  the  part  of  his  regiment  in  the  engagements  in  the 
Chemin  des  Dames  and  La  Reine  sectors.  In  the  spring 
he  took  special  courses  in  bombing  and  gassing  in  the 
First  Corps  School,  and  presumably  would  have  been  sent 
to  America  as  an  instruction  officer  in  these  branches  had 
he  survived.  When  the  Chateau-Thierry  offensive  began, 
his  regiment  was  in  the  fight,  and  on  July  18,  while  John- 
son was  leading  his  men  into  the  village  of  Torcy,  a  short 
distance  from  Chateau-Thierry,  which  had  been  taken  by 
his  company  a  few  moments  before,  he  was  struck  by  a 
bomb  and  died  a  few  moments  later.  One  of  his  sergeants 
wrote  soon  afterwards  to  Johnson's  father: 

Lieutenant  Johnson  was  not  very  well  known  to  our  com- 
pany previous  to  July  16,  as  he  was  formerly  with  a  different 
company,  although  in  the  same  battalion.  But  during  our 
short  acquaintance  of  only  two  days,  he  proved  to  his  men  that 
he  was  a  wonderful  soldier-officer  and  what  was  more,  a  man. 

Your  son  was  in  command  of  our  third  platoon,  with  a 
Sergeant  Sabine  and  myself  with  his  two  sections.  We  left 
Belleau  Wood  about  6.30  or  7.00  on  the  morning  of  July  18, 
and  headed  for  our  objective,  which  was  the  town  of  Torcy. 
This  town  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  over  open  coun- 
try.   The  infantry  had  advanced  ahead  of  us,  so  all  we  had  to 



fear  was  the  artillery.  We  arrived  in  Torcy  with  very  few 
casualties,  and  our  lieutenant  placed  my  two  guns  and  then 
took  our  other  sergeant  out  in  front  of  the  town,  in  plain  view 
of  the  enemy  and  endeavored  to  find  a  shell-hole  to  place  the 
other  two  guns. 

Lieutenant  Johnson  ran  in  front  of  his  sergeant  around  a 
small  shrub.  As  he  did,  a  small  shell  —  either  a  one-pounder 
or  a  "77"  —  exploded  immediately  in  front  of  him.  He  fell 
and  Sergeant  Sabine  with  some  help  carried  him  back  into  the 
street  of  the  town  where  we  had  a  little  protection.  He  was 
conscious  for  about  ten  minutes.  I  was  yelling  to  find  out  if 
any  one  knew  where  a  Red  Cross  Station  was,  and  hearing 
him  speak  I  bent  down  and  he  told  me  it  was  "down  to  the 
church."  He  repeated  that  several  times.  We  tried  to  use  a 
tourniquet  on  his  right  leg  and  left  arm,  but  could  do  nothing. 
So  by  the  time  that  a  medical  man  came,  he  was  very  near  gone 
from  concussion  and  loss  of  blood,  and  died  on  the  stretcher. 

I  shall  not  try  to  sympathize  with  you  myself,  as  I  could  not 
word  it,  but  you  had  a  man  for  a  son  in  Lieutenant  Johnson. 

He  was  buried  in  Belleaii  ^Vood,  where  his  body  now 
lies.  He  was  much  beloved  by  his  men.  In  the  last  letter 
he  wrote  to  his  father,  the  night  before  he  died,  he  said 
in  closing,  "I  am  asking  God  to  help  me  to  use  my  brain 
in  order  to  protect  my  men,  to  succeed  in  my  mission, 
and  to  act  bravely," 

The  captain  of  his  company  wrote: 

He  was  not  only  extremely  popular  with  his  brother  officers 
in  the  battalion  but  so  with  all  the  men.  Never  have  I  met  such 
a  man.  His  untiring  persistency  in  caring  for  his  men  was  an 
example  never  equaled.  He  led  a  platoon  with  the  battalion 
which  took  and  occupied  Torcy,  July  18,  1918.  He  would 
never  ask  or  send  a  man  where  he  would  not  go.  In  fact  he 
would  not  allow  one  of  his  sergeants  to  accompany  him  on  a 



reconnaissance  of  one  section  of  the  town  of  Torcy.  It  was  on 
this  trip  that  he  met  his  death  from  a  shell.  His  sergeant,  hear- 
ing a  shell  land  near  the  ruins  into  which  your  son  had  entered, 
hastened  forward.  To  the  end  he  tried  to  have  the  sergeant 
leave  him,  fearing  for  his  safety.  He  met  his  death  as  he  had 
lived  —  ever  willing,  cool  at  all  times,  and  his  courage  un- 

The  Lieutenant  Orville  P.  Johnson  Post  No.  202,  Vet- 
erans of  Foreign  Wars,  was  organized  in  Albany  in  1919. 
At  the  Harvard  Commencement  of  the  same  year  the 
war  degree  of  A.B.  was  conferred  upon  Johnson  as  of 
the  Class  of  1918. 



Class  of  1918 

XvoBERT  MoRSS  LovETT,  Jr.,  a  son  of  Robert  Morss 
Lovett,^  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1892,  Professor  of  English 
in  the  University  of  Chicago,  an  editor  of  the  New  Repub- 
lic, and  Ida  Campbell  (Mott-Smith)  Lovett,  was  born  at 
Boston,  July  21,  1896.  He  spent  the  first  year  of  his  life 
in  Italy,  where  "bimbi"  became  on  his  lips  "Bimbles"  — 
the  name  which,  more  than  anything  else,  recalls  him  to 
his  oldest  friends.  His  years  at  the  Elementary  School 
of  the  University  of  Chicago  brought  out  in  him  a  char- 
acter of  great  sweetness  and  gentleness,  relieved,  it  is  true, 
by  humor,  but  lacking,  as  his  parents  thought,  in  certain 

^  Special  acknowledgments  are  due  to  Professor  Lovett  for  this 



elements  necessary  to  success  in  a  competitive  society.  In 
particular  he  was  averse  to  strife  of  any  sort,  a  natural 
pacifist.  A  teacher  recalls  seeing  him,  when  a  little  boy, 
prone  on  the  grass  of  the  Midway  Plaisance  but  otherwise 
exhibiting  no  signs  of  discomfiture.  "Why  are  you  lying 
there.'*"  she  asked.  "A  big  boy  knocked  me  down." 
"Well,  why  don't  you  get  up?"  "He  might  knock  me 
down  again."  Above  all,  he  was  devoted  to  his  home  and 

To  counteract  these  unpromising  tendencies,  when  he 
was  thirteen  his  parents  took  him  to  Munich  and  placed 
him  in  a  large  boarding  school  in  which  Herr  Romer  was 
trying  to  stiffen  the  educational  laxity  of  Bavaria  by  a 
little  Prussianism.     " Zn  streng"  was  the  comment  of  the 
Miinchners,  and  doubly  strenuous  it  was  for  an  American 
boy,  quite  ignorant  of  German,  and  held,  from  the  mo- 
ment of  his  entrance,  responsible  for  obeying  all  the  elabo- 
rate regulations  of  the  school.    After  a  time  he  was  allowed 
to  become  a  day  scholar,  his  first  recitation  falling  at  six 
in  the  morning  and  his  last  at  seven  in  the  evening.    His 
father  recalls  turning  on  the  light  in  his  room  one  night 
about  eleven,  when  Robert  promptly  rolled  out  of  bed, 
and,  with  ej^es  only  half  open,  shed  his  pyjamas  and  began 
to  wriggle  into  his  underclothes.    At  the  warning,  "It's 
only  eleven;  you  don't  have  to  get  up,"  he  automatically 
reversed  his  motions,  and  without  a  word  sank  back  into 
bed.     He  thus  achieved  a  kind  of  stoicism  which  later 
stood   him   in   good   stead.      Nothing   could   touch   him 
further.    After  two  years  with  Herr  Romer  he  could  face 
the  hardships  of  training  camp,  oflScers'  school,  and  front 
trenches  with  entire  equanimity. 



One  great  alleviation  he  found  in  school  life,  the  excur- 
sions into  the  Bavarian  Alps,  winter  and  summer,  which 
were  led  by  the  Herr  Direktor  himself.  Two  summers 
were  spent  at  the  little  village  of  Sand  in  the  Tyrol; 
and  with  his  father  he  made  the  ordinary  ascents  in 
the  eastern  Alps.  A  third  summer  the  family  spent  at 
Champery  and  Chamounix,  a  summer  crowned  by  cross- 
ing to  Italy  over  the  Col  du  Geant,  and  a  return  to  Switzer- 
land by  the  Theodule  Pass  to  Zermatt,  with  an  ascent  of 
the  Matterhorn.  But  these  summer  climbs  were  nothing 
in  comparison  with  winter  excursions  into  the  Zillerthal 
and  Oetzthal  Alps  made  in  company  with  two  American 
boys,  William  and  Edward  Thomas.  No  guides  could  be 
engaged.  On  skis  and  snowshoes  they  located  passes  by 
contour  lines,  and  dug  their  way  into  huts  half  buried  in 
snow.  The  second  trip  culminated  in  the  ascent  of  the 
Schwartzenstein  from  Sand,  a  night  in  a  hut  which  they 
fortunately  discovered,  where  the  temperature  a  few  feet 
from  the  stove  never  got  above  freezing,  and  a  dangerously 
rapid  descent  to  Mairhofen  to  catch  the  last  train  for 
Munich.  Mountains  and  mountaineering  became  the  pas- 
sion of  Robert's  life.  He  was  not  in  general  a  great  reader, 
but  the  literature  of  mountain  climbing  he  read  in  any 
language.  And  one  thing  his  mountains  did  for  him,  as 
for  Mr.  Wells's  hero  in  "The  Research  Magnificent,"  — 
they  made  him  forever  free  of  all  sense  of  fear.  That 
source  of  suffering  of  the  soldier  he  was  spared. 

On  the  return  to  America,  as  Robert  still  evinced  a  curi- 
ously boyish  love  of  his  home,  it  was  decided  to  send  him 
to  boarding  school.  His  great-grandfather  had  been  at 
Phillips-Andover;  his  father's  college  chum,  Allen  Benner, 



was  professor  of  Greek  there,  so  thither  he  was  sent  for 
three  years.  As  a  result  of  his  familiarity  with  German, 
he  was  appointed  in  successive  years  to  act  as  guide  and 
interpreter  of  the  American  school  to  exchange  teachers 
from  Germany.  He  took  the  classical  course.  He  was  not 
a  brilliant  student;  he  had  little  interest  in  modern  litera- 
ture; but  in  the  classics,  in  Greek  especially,  he  took  real 
joy.  Homer,  Sophocles,  like  the  Matterhorn,  were  part 
of  the  great  experience  in  life  which  his  nature  craved. 
He  continued  his  classical  studies  at  Harvard,  which  he 
entered  in  1914;  but  in  preparation  for  that  competitive 
struggle  which  he  was  never  to  share,  he  gave  his  best 
efforts  to  political  economy.  They  were  his  best,  although 
not  very  successful.  He  entered  a  minor  sport,  lacrosse, 
but  probation  invariably  deprived  him  of  the  important 
games.  But  association  with  the  lacrosse  team,  with  his 
fraternity  brothers  of  Alpha  Phi  Sigma,  and  with  friends 
on  the  faculty,  especially  Professor  E.  K.  Rand  (who  was 
his  godfather).  Professor  R.  DeC.  Ward,  and  others,  was 
the  best  that  Harvard  gave  him;  and  it  was  much.  He 
was  a  member,  moreover,  of  the  St.  Paul's  Society,  the 
Andover  Club,  and  the  Deutscher  Verein. 

While  at  Andover  and  at  Cambridge,  Lovett  had  some 
share  in  social  work  for  boys,  first  at  Lawrence  and  later 
with  a  library  group  at  South  Boston.  His  interest  in 
these  boys  was  very  genuine.  They  played  a  part  in  his 
education  for  military  office.  And  another  experience  was 
not  without  significance.  In  the  summer  after  his  sopho- 
more year  he  acted  for  a  time  as  a  reporter  for  the  Chicago 
Tribune.  It  was  the  season  of  the  regrettably  large  num- 
ber of  casualties  from  drowning;  he  was  regularly  assigned 



to  interview  the  family  of  the  victim,  and  more  than  once 
it  happened  that  he  was  the  first  to  bring  the  fatal  news. 
His  spirit  suffered  —  but  the  discipline  of  his  sympathy 
was  a  preparation. 

When  the  United  States  entered  the  war,  Lovett,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Harvard  R.  O.  T.  C,  applied  for  admission 
to  the  training  camp  at  Plattsburg  and  was  accepted. 
On  completing  his  course  there  and  receiving  his  com- 
mission as  a  second  lieutenant,  infantry,  he  was  assigned 
as  an  instructor  at  Camp  Devens,  but  almost  imme- 
diately was  ordered  to  join  the  26th  ("Yankee")  Divi- 
sion, for  service  overseas.  Unlike  many  boys,  he  was 
not  anxious  for  overseas  service.  The  cruelty  of  war 
was  utterly  repellent  to  him,  and  he  thought  it  a  pecul- 
iarly hard  fate  which  brought  him  into  armed  conflict 
with  boys  who  had  been  his  schoolfellows  and  friends. 
Yet,  when  General  Edwards  offered  to  return  him  to  his 
original  assignment  at  Camp  Devens,  he  refused.  When 
the  example  of  an  older  lad,  who  had  asked  to  remain  on 
this  side  for  further  training,  was  pointed  out  to  him,  he 
said:  "He's  sure  that's  the  real  reason.  I  can't  be.  I'd 
better  go  where  they  want  me."  Fortunately  he  had  no 
question  of  the  good  faith  of  the  leaders  of  the  nation,  nor 
did  he  doubt  their  assurance  that  he  was  to  fight  in  the 
cause  of  a  better  world. 

At  Westfield,  Massachusetts,  he  went  into  camp  late 
in  August,  with  the  103d  Regiment,  as  second  lieutenant 
of  Company  E.  In  September,  1917,  the  Division  was 
ordered  overseas,  and,  after  a  few  weeks  in  England,  settled 
down  to  a  winter  of  training  near  Chaumont.  Lovett's 
letters  to  his  family  were  constant.    He  knew  the  terrible 



fear  in  his  home,  and  made  an  effort,  pathetically  evident, 
to  dwell  upon  the  brighter  side  of  war.  Never  did  he 
speak  of  the  enemy  in  terms  of  hatred  or  contempt.  To 
him  they  were  boys  like  himself,  set  apart  to  die  that  older, 
more  valuable  men  with  families,  financial  interests,  social 
responsibilities,  and  political  position  might  be  spared. 

He  was  fortunate  in  his  immediate  associates.  The 
company  to  which  he  was  attached  was  from  Skowhegan, 
Maine,  and  had  been  under  the  same  captain  as  part  of 
the  National  Guard  of  the  state.  There  was  understand- 
ing and  good  fellowship  between  officers  and  men.  To 
both,  his  nature,  so  ready  to  attach  itself  by  affection  and 
loyalty  to  the  human  beings  near  him,  went  out.  The 
company  became  hi?  home.  He  did  not  wish  to  leave  it. 
Captain  Healy  used  to  tease  him  by  threatening  to  reveal 
his  knowledge  of  German  and  French,  which  might  have 
caused  his  assignment  to  staff  work.  When  he  was  sent 
to  an  officers'  training  school,  he  asked  both  his  colonel 
and  his  captain  to  put  in  applications  for  his  return  to  his 
company.  Everyone  who  knew  him  will  understand 
Captain  Healy's  writing  that  he  had  come  to  love  him  as 
a  younger  brother;  and  will  not  be  surprised  that,  when 
he  rejoined  his  company  a  few  days  before  Marshal  Foch's 
offensive  of  July  18,  he  stood  before  his  platoon  with  the 
tears  running  down  his  cheeks.  He  had  worked  hard  with 
the  inspiration  of  learning  how  to  take  care  of  his  men. 
It  would  have  been  unspeakable  tragedy  for  him  if  they 
had  gone  into  action  without  him. 

On  the  morning  of  July  18,  the  103d  Regiment  took 
part  in  the  offensive  from  Belleau  Wood.  The  following 
letter  gives  an  account  of  events  as  they  appeared  a  few 



days  later,  though  one  material  fact  is  omitted  —  namely, 
the  failure,  on  account  of  bad  staff  work,  of  the  rest  of  the 
brigade  to  move  forward  in  support,  leaving  the  103d  ex- 
posed to  flank  attack.  It  was  evidently  this  circumstance 
which  led  Lieutenant  Lovett  to  question  the  orders  which 

he  had  received. 

2  RUE  d'Aguesseau,  Paris,  France. 
July  26,  1918. 

Dear  Mr.  Lovett: 

This  letter  I  typewrite  because  it  is  more  likely  to  reach  you 
if  it  is  not  in  handwriting.  I  will  not  intrude  upon  your  grief 
with  expressions  of  sympathy  for  the  loss  of  that  beautiful  lad 
Robert.  But  I  will  tell  you  all  I  have  been  able  to  learn  about 

Yesterday,  the  25th,  I  was  near  the  front  lines  when  I  met 
Captain  Healy,  Robert's  captain.  I  heard  him  mention  the 
name,  and  asked  if  the  lieutenant  he  spoke  of  was  your  boy. 
When  I  found  he  was,  I  reached  every  one  I  could  who  had  been 
with  him,  and  spent  the  day  questioning  all  persons  connected 
with  Robert's  platoon  and  company  so  as  to  get  as  accurate 
an  account  as  possible.  The  facts  are  blurred  already  —  just 
in  one  little  week.  The  letter  Captain  Healy  will  write  may  be 
a  bit  different  from  mine,  but  these  are  the  facts  so  nearly  as  I 
can  find  them  out  from  talking  to  twenty  men.  If  I  say  any- 
thing that  hurts,  forgive  me;  God  knows  that  I  would  spare 
you  if  I  could,  but  I  think  the  day  will  come  when  you  will  want 
all  details. 

The  friends  of  Robert's  whom  I  have  talked  with,  besides 
Captain  Healy,  are  Lieutenant  Kirkpatrick,  who  was  with  him 
at  Plattsburg;  Lieutenant  Sniff,  a  very  keen  and  accurate  and 
sympathetic  person;  Ward  Black,  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  worker  who 
knew  your  son  well;  and  Sergeant  Emory  who  was  devoted  to 
him.  There  was  a  corporal  with  him  at  the  end,  one  Lancto. 
No  one  knows  where  he  is;  he  has  been  evacuated,  and  all  traces 
of  him  are  lost.    But  I  will  do  my  best  to  find  him.  .  .  . 



On  "Wednesday  night,  very  late  —  indeed,  almost  Thursday 
morning  —  word  came  from  General  Foch  that  companies  hold- 
ing the  line  were  to  go  over  almost  at  once;  they  were  to  start 
at  4.45,  Thursday  morning,  the  18th.  It  was  not  possible  to  get 
ready  by  that  time,  so  Robert's  regiment  (or  the  companies  of 
them  in  action)  did  not  start  till  7.15.  Lieutenant  Kirkpatrick 
went  across  the  day  before;  he  says  that  Robert  teased  him 
about  having  to  go  over  first.  You  must  know  that  these  lads 
have  a  way  of  jesting  over  their  chances,  and  Robert  was  telling 
him  he'd  never  be  back,  and  laughing  and  pretending  that 
Kirkpatrick  was  afraid.  All  these  men  say  that  Robert  did  not 
know  what  fear  of  danger  was,  and  that  before  this  time  when- 
ever he  was  in  action  he  was  always  laughing  beforehand  — 
sure  he  was  coming  back.  They  did  not  say  that  he  said  he'd 
come  back;  but  the  impression  of  everyone  with  whom  I  talked 
was  that  Robert  thought  nothing  could  ever  happen  to  him. 

But  he  was  very  quiet  this  Thursday  morning;  Lieutenant 
Sniff  and  Sergeant  Emory  both  noticed  it.  Both  these  men  (and 
they  are  not  hysterical  persons)  say  that  three  or  four  times  they 
have  seen  brave  men  quiet  in  just  that  way,  and  they  have  taken 
it  for  a  premonition  that  they  would  not  come  back.  Robert  said 
almost  nothing  to  any  of  them. 

I  have  seen  those  dreadful  woods,  and  I  shall  try  to  tell  you 
about  them.  There  is  first  the  fringe  of  the  woods  where  Robert 
and  his  men  stood  before  they  went  across  the  open.  Then 
comes  a  very  long  stretch  of  wheat-fields;  the  wheat  is  almost 
hip  high,  or  a  little  less.  I  think  the  fields  must  be  almost  half 
a  mile  across.  Then  comes  a  railroad  track,  wuth  a  gully  at  the 
side.  On  the  other  side  is  the  hill  which  the  men  were  to  try 
to  take. 

This  hill,  it  was  known,  was  manned  by  various  German 
machine-gun  companies,  but  no  one  guessed  how  many  there 
were.  The  reason  why  Foch  sent  his  orders  so  late  was  that  he 
did  not  want  the  Germans  to  have  any  warning  of  what  was 
going  to  happen.    They  were  to  think  (and  evidently  they  did 



think)  that  an  enormous  force  was  coming  over.  If  they  had 
guessed  how  few  companies  there  were,  they  need  not  have  run 
away  as  they  did.  But  because  the  notice  was  so  short,  the 
officers  had  no  time  to  reconnoitre.  That  is,  Robert  and  his 
men  went  over  territory  entirely  unknown  to  them. 

Most  of  the  soldiers  when  crossing  the  wheat -fields  drop  into 
them  occasionally  for  cover.  I  assume  that  Robert  and  his 
platoon  must  have  done  this;  at  any  rate,  there  were  very  few 
losses  until  they  had  got  well  past  the  wheat-field  bisected  by 
the  road;  then  they  got  into  the  rest  of  the  wheat -field  and  ap- 
proached the  gully.  At  that  point,  as  I  understand  it.  Captain 
Healy  had  ordered  Robert  to  take  his  platoon  and  go  about  by 
the  left  flank  of  the  hill.  (I  have  seen  this  country  up  to  within 
a  few  score  yards  of  the  gully;  but  I  can  only  tell  you  from  hear- 
say how  the  ground  was  just  about  there.)  Robert  and  his  men 
lay  flat,  and  began  to  crawl  through  the  wheat.  The  machine 
guns  were  not  turned  upon  them,  but  the  German  snipers  shot 
at  them.  \Mien  he  was  half  way  to  the  bit  of  woods  he  was  to 
take  (just  a  few  trees,  I  understand,  where  Germans  were  sup- 
posed to  be  lurking),  Robert  came  back.  When  he  started, 
young  Emory  begged  him  to  be  careful.  He  said  Robert  was 
so  fearless  and  he  had  been  crawling  rather  recklessly.  Robert 
did  go  carefully,  and  reached  Captain  Healy  safely.  He  said, 
"Captain,  they're  sniping  my  men.  Have  I  got  to  go  on?" 
The  Captain  replied  that  the  woods  had  to  be  taken.  ("I  told 
Lovett  he  had  to  do  it;  I  thought  it  was  only  a  bit  of  brush. 
Anyway,  it  had  to  be  done.")  So  Robert  said,  "All  right;  I'll 
go  on  with  what  men  I  have  left." 

He  started  back  and  came  safely  to  his  men.  They  crawled 
on  a  bit  further  and  then  halted  for  a  time;  they  had  been  losing 
men  pretty  heavily.  Robert  kept  crawling  up  and  down  his 
line  of  men  to  give  them  instructions  and  "to  see  how  things 
were  going,"  as  Emory  says.  Emory  kept  warning  him  to 
crawl  with  as  little  movement  as  he  could,  and  he  did.  At  one 
time  he  took  three  men,  did  some  reconnoitering,  and  got  back 



safely.    Then  Emory  seems  to  have  been  separated  from  him, 

and  Lancto  was  beside  him.     At  something  hke  nine  o'clock 

Robert  was  shot  in  the  thigh  by  a  sniper.    He  said,  "That's  a 

funny  place  to  get  hit."    That  wound  was  evidently  not  serious. 

Some  of  the  men  I  talked  with  say  that  at  that  moment  the 

order  came  for  the  company  to  retreat  and  that  Robert  began 

to  crawl  back  with  the  others.    Some  say  that  before  the  order 

came  to  retreat  he  was  again  shot;    that  is,  that  he  did  not 

attempt  to  crawl.    If  I  can  find  Lancto,  I  may  learn  about  this. 

But,  in  any  case,  soon  after  he  had  the  first  wound  he  was  shot 

again,  this  time  in  the  head.    The  two  men  beside  him  were  also 

shot.     It  may  have  been  machine-gun  firing  this  time,  or  it  may 

have  been  sniping.    In  any  case  Lieutenant  Sniff  says  he  knows 

he  did  not  suffer.    Lieutenant  Sniff  says  the  nervous  exaltation 

is  such  that  a  man  does  not  feel  these  bullet  wounds;    with 

shrapnel  it  is  different.     They  are  all  of  the  impression  that 

Robert  died  almost  instantly  after  the  second  wound,  or  wounds, 

in  his  head;  that  when  the  retreat  was  ordered  and  the  men  had 

to  crawl  away,  leaving  their  wounded,  your  son  was  done  with 

all  this  bitter  war. 

But  this  is  true:  when  the  litter-bearers  went  out  to  find  the 
wounded,  the  Germans  had  stolen  Robert's  watch  and  money  — 
everything  he  had,  even  letters.  He  was  buried  in  the  little 
cemetery  at  Bouresches.  I  can  scarcely  get  permission  to  go 
there  again,  or  I  would  gladly  get  a  picture  of  his  grave.  It  is 
just  a  little  town,  shelled  very  much,  chiefly  by  the  Germans, 
where  the  civilians  have  just  begun  to  creep  back.  These  French 
civilians  will  care  for  the  grave  and  keep  flowers  on  it  all  summer. 

Robert  had  just  come  back  from  school,  where  he  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  very  much.  All  his  friends  in  the  company 
were  impressed  with  his  mental  power.  He  talked  a  good  deal 
in  that  last  week  of  his  life  about  what  had  happened  at  school. 
Ward  Black  had  a  long  conversation  with  him;  Mr.  Black  used 
often  to  bring  Y.  M.  C.  A.  supplies  to  his  men.  Robert  was  very 
anxious  that  they  should  be  as  well  supplied  with  extras  as  pos- 



sible,  and  often  asked  Mr.  Black  to  do  errands  for  this  platoon. 
He  told  Mr.  Black  how  he  had  been  assigned  to  another  divi- 
sion and  had  not  wanted  to  leave  his  own  original  division,  and 
had  got  Captain  Healy  to  arrange  for  him  to  return.  I  asked 
Captain  Healy  if  he  had  spoken  much  in  that  last  week  of  things 
at  home  and  he  said  no;  that  Robert  had  said  only  that  he 
would  ask,  or  had  asked,  you  to  get  a  watch  for  Captain  Healy 
like  his  own. 

No  one  seems  to  remember  much  of  what  Robert  said  in  detail, 
but  they  all  speak  of  his  lovable  personality.  They  say  that  no 
one  could  have  been  braver,  or  more  cheerful,  more  boyish. 
He  liked  to  tell  them  of  the  pranks  he  used  to  play  as  a  young 
lad,  —  such  as  pawning  his  suit  case.  Captain  Healy  says  his 
conduct  over  here  was  in  all  ways  what  you  would  have  been 
proud  of.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  love  he  seems  to  have  inspired 
and  what  grief,  especially  in  Captain  Healy  and  young  Emory. 
Captain  Healy  was  in  tears  when  he  told  me  about  having  to 
give  him  that  order  to  take  his  men  on  the  flank.  "I  never 
loved  a  man  as  much  as  I  did  Lovett,"  he  said.  Poor  Emory 
could  not  speak  without  his  voice  breaking. 

I  don't  know  how  to  write  this  letter,  Mr.  Lovett;  how  to 
tell  you  and  his  mother  how  much  that  cheerful,  thoughtful 
personality  meant  to  Company  E  in  the  way  of  example  to  the 
men,  and  to  the  officers.  He  laughed  at  hardships,  but  he  never 
let  his  men  have  more  hardship  than  they  must.  I  carried  away 
such  a  sense  of  sunny  youth.  They  wanted  me  to  tell  you  that 
he  really  had  been  happy  over  here;  liked  the  soldier  life.  I  am 
glad  his  end  was  so  easy;  you  need  not  think  of  him  as  lying 
wet  or  wounded  or  suffering;  the  great  agony  of  some,  Robert 
never  had  to  suffer. 

As  to  finding  Lancto  —  I  may  not  be  able  to  do  it.  It  is 
amazing  how  soon  facts  and  men  are  lost  track  of  here.  No  one 
of  his  company  could  tell  me  anything  about  him.  .  .  .  Later 
he  will  be  found,  but  I  want  to  reach  him  soon,  while  he  can 
remember  freshly. 



Captain  Healy  will  write  you,  too.  There  is  no  more  that  I 
can  learn.     With  deep  sympathy, 

Faithfully  yours, 

Maude  Radford  Warren. 

In  the  Thirtieth  Anniversary  Report  of  the  Class  of 
1892  there  is  the  following  brief  summary  of  the  circum- 
stances of  Lovett's  death: 

The  engagement  in  which  he  lost  his  life  occurred  at  the  very 
beginning  of  Foch's  offensive.  The  attack  was  to  have  begun 
at  4.30  of  July  18,  but  it  was  not  until  three  hours  later  that  the 
regiment  emerged  from  the  Belleau  Woods.  The  objective 
which  Robert's  company  was  to  take  was  evidently  too  strong, 
for  it  did  not  yield  until  two  days  later.  Robert  got  his  platoon 
into  cover  in  a  wheat  field  and  crawled  back  across  the  open 
grounds  to  report  his  losses  and  ask  if  he  was  to  continue  the 
attack.  They  said  "Yes,"  and  he  answered  very  cheerfully, 
"Then  I'll  go  on  with  the  men  I  have  left."  He  was  very  proud 
of  his  men.  He  might  have  had  an  instructor's  position,  but  he 
did  not  wish  to  leave  them.  Very  few  of  the  platoon  engaged 
escaped  death  or  severe  wounds.  His  own  death  was  probably 
instantaneous,  just  as  a  retreat  was  ordered. 



Law  School  1908-10 

Ijester  Clement  Barton  was  born,  June  27,  1884, 
in  the  Chicago  suburb  of  Maywood,  Illinois,  founded  in 
1869  by  his  grandfather,  William  Thomas  Nichols,  colonel 
of  the  14th  Vermont  Regiment,  which  played  an  important 
part  in  the  action  under  General  Stannard  on  the  third 
day  of  the  Battle  of  Gettysburg.  This  soldier,  reputed  the 
first  Vermonter  to  enlist  for  the  Civil  War,  was  himself 
descended  from  Neri  Crampton,  a  young  lieutenant  with 
Ethan  Allen  at  the  surrender  of  Fort  Ticonderoga. 
Through  his  father's  family,  Barton  traced  descent  from 
three  holders  of  his  name  in  as  many  generations  who  took 
part  in  the  War  of  the  Revolution;  from  Sarah  (Towne) 
Cloyce,  acquitted  of  witchcraft  at  about  the  same  time 



that  her  sisters,  Rebecca  (Towne)  Nourse  and  Mary 
(Towne)  Easty,  were  executed,  in  the  Massachusetts  Bay 
Colony,  for  this  s^upposed  offense;  and  from  Stephen  Hop- 
kins of  the  Mayfloicer  company.  He  was  the  eldest  son 
of  George  Preston  Barton,  long  a  practising  lawyer  in 
Chicago,  now  living  in  California,  and  of  Lucy  (Nichols) 

Barton  attended  the  public  schools  in  Chicago,  and 
graduated  from  the  Chicago  Manual  Training  School  in 
1901.  A  year  at  Phillips  Academy,  Andover,  then  pre- 
pared him  to  enter  Yale,  in  the  autumn  of  1902,  with  the 
Class  of  1906.  At  Andover  he  won  a  prize  in  Latin  and 
graduated  with  high  standing.  At  Yale  he  took  part  in 
football,  rowing,  and  basketball. 

His  connection  with  the  Harvard  Law  School  for  two 
years  followed  one  year  (1906-07)  of  legal  study  at  the 
University  of  Chicago.  Five  years  after  graduating  from 
Yale  he  gave  the  following  account  of  himself  in  the  Class 
Report  of  1911: 

The  year  following  graduation  I  lived  at  home  and  attended 
the  Law  School  of  the  University  of  Chicago,  the  co-educational 
atmosphere  of  which  was  quite  a  contrast  to  my  previous  eight 
years'  experience.  Then,  being  short  of  funds,  as  usual,  I  took 
a  photographic  outfit  and  two  friends  up  into  Minnesota  and 
Wisconsin  to  two  militia  camps  and  took  in  $900  in  two  weeks. 
Feeling  that  the  possession  of  so  much  wealth  in  a  large  city 
might  have  a  pernicious  effect  on  my  character,  I  immediately 
started  for  Wyoming  with  the  same  two  and  one  more  friend, 
and  we  took  a  thousand-mile  trip  with  six  horses,  starting  from 
Lander  and  including  the  cosmopolitan  metropolis  of  Ther- 
mopolis,  Yellowstone  Park,  and  Jackson's  Hole.  After  a  month 
in  Chicago  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  most  profitable  thing  I  could 



do  then,  under  all  the  circumstances,  was  to  look  around  the 
West  some  more,  and  incidentally  earn  my  own  living,  inas- 
much as  I  could  n't  raise  enough  money  to  go  to  Harvard  Law 
School.  So  I  bought  an  eight-thousand  mile  round-trip  ticket 
(including  Phoenix,  Arizona,  and  Victoria,  B.C.)  and  started 
the  latter  part  of  November.  Among  other  things  I  wholesaled 
from  San  Diego  to  Seattle  my  own  photographs  of  the  Atlantic 
Squadron,  then  on  its  way  round  the  world.  Had  a  little  office 
in  'Frisco  and  two  or  three  assistants.  On  this  trip  I  made  at 
least  20,000  prints  and  covered  about  15,000  miles  in  all.  Re- 
turned to  Chicago  in  July. 

The  following  two  years,  which  I  spent  at  Harvard  Law 
School,  I  look  back  on  with  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction.  For  the 
past  six  years,  I  have  made  some  kind  of  a  Western  trip  each 
summer,  and  feel  very  familiar  with  the  country  out  there. 
This  past  summer  (1910)  I  returned  to  Chicago  about  October  1, 
passed  my  bar  exams,  got  a  job  as  attorney  for  Charles  Hall 
Ewing  and  the  Helen  Culver  estate.  .  .  . 

Soon  after  this  beginning  he  served  for  a  time  as  as- 
sistant state's  attorney  for  Cook  County,  Illinois,  and 
later  was  engaged  in  examining  titles  for  the  Chicago  Title 
and  Trust  Company.  In  1916  he  opened  a  law  office  of 
his  own  and  entered  upon  independent  practice. 

The  beginnings  of  his  military  service  are  summarized 
as  follows  in  the  "Yale  Obituary  Record": 

When  war  was  declared  he  almost  immediately  offered  him- 
self at  the  first  Officers'  Training  Camp  at  Fort  Sheridan,  Illi- 
nois, but  was  required  to  wait,  on  account  of  a  sprained  knee, 
until  the  second  camp,  which  he  entered  on  August  27,  1917. 
On  November  27,  1917,  he  was  commissioned  a  second  lieuten- 
ant of  field  artillery,  and  immediately  ordered  to  France.  He 
sailed  by  way  of  Halifax  and  England,  and  reached  France, 
January  7,  1918.    There  he  followed  the  regular  intensive  train- 



ing  at  Saumur,  and  in  April,  1918,  he  was  assigned  to  Battery  B, 
101st  F.  A.,  26th  Division,  then  stationed  at  Toul.  Early  in 
May  he  had  a  leave  and  visited  his  sister  Thyrza  (Mrs.  Sherman 
W.  Dean),  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  worker  in  Paris,  and  his  half-brother, 
William  S.  Barton,  a  sergeant  in  the  ambulance  service. 

Soon  after  Barton  reached  France  he  set  up  the  practice 
of  sending  bulletin  letters,  "dope  sheets"  he  called  them, 
to  a  number  of  friends  in  America.  They  told  of  what  he 
was  both  doing  and  thinking.  In  the  first  of  them  he  had 
to  relate  an  accident  to  his  foot  while  he  was  riding  at  the 
Field  Artillery  School  at  Saumur.  The  second  was  written 
from  a  hospital  cot  in  the  officers'  ward  of  Base  Hospital 
27,  at  Angers,  where  he  spent  several  weeks  recovering 
from  this  injury. 

The  only  joy  of  the  situation  is  the  marvellous  opportunity  to 
read  and  study,  without  distractions,  and  I  am  fully  taking  ad- 
vantage of  it.  The  available  books  are  the  only  limitation.  Be- 
sides the  occasional  Paris  edition  of  New  York  and  Chicago 
newspapers,  magazines,  etc.,  during  the  past  three  and  a  half 
days  I  have  read:  1.  "The  Preacher  of  Cedar  Mountain,"  a 
story  of  the  Black  Hills,  and  Chicago,  in  the  80's,  by  Ernest 
Thompson  Seton.  It  is  a  better  tale  than  I  supposed  he  could 
write,  and  some  parts  of  it  strike  a  responsive  chord  in  my  own 
experience,  —  as  to  a  love  for  the  open  places  of  the  West,  etc. 
2.  "Kitchener's  Mob"  is  very  similar  to  "Over  the  Top,"  but  is 
written  by  a  more  intelligent  man  and  possibly  from  a  less 
egotistical  viewpoint.  It  is  only  200  pp.  and  a  vivid  piece  of 
writing.  3.  Some  of  the  latest  Sherlock  Holmes  stories,  entitled 
"His  Last  Bow."  4.  Tolstoy's  "Anna  Karenina."  Have  only 
read  225  pp.  out  of  the  two  volumes,  so  far,  but  am  entirely 
fascinated.  I  shall  certainly  get  hold  of  some  more  of  his  books, 
and  confess  that  I  have  read  none  before.  This  one  reminds  me 
of  de  Morgan's  "Joseph  Vance"  in  its  detailed  characterization, 



but  seems  more  interesting  and  meaty.  In  addition  to  reading 
I  am  planning  to  keep  up  with  the  work  at  the  school,  certainly 
the  book  part  of  it,  and  unless  I  am  out  more  than  a  month, 
which  is  n't  likely,  I  shall  hope  to  finish  with  the  others  about 
the  middle  of  April.  By  the  time  they  all  arrive,  there  will  be 
almost  700  student  pfiicers  in  the  school. 

When  he  joined  the  26th  Division  he  took  pleasure  in 
meeting  a  number  of  Harvard  men  among  the  officers. 
Much  of  the  news  he  sent  home  had  to  do  with  experiences 
common  to  all.  In  one  letter  written  from  the  front,  and 
but  indirectly  connected  with  his  work  as  a  field  artillery 
ofiicer,  he  showed  himself  an  attentive  and  appreciative 


June  8,  1918. 

Dear  Friends: 

Yesterday  I  had  a  most  wonderful  experience  —  as  great  and 
joyous  a  thrill  as  one  can  have  —  at  least  from  a  mechanical  con- 
trivance —  my  first  flight  of  If  hours,  in  an  aeroplane. 

The  afternoon  was  bright  and  hot,  so  they  told  me  the  air 
would  be  "bumpy"  if  we  went  up  before  4.30  p.m.  That  means 
the  heat  waves  would  be  rising  and  make  us  ride  like  a  ship  in  a 

So  the  French  capitaine  had  telephoned  his  superiors,  and 
obtained  permission.  I  was  dressed  for  the  air  as  for  a  polar 
trip  and  my  pilot  was  ready.  He  was  a  delightful  little  French- 
man—  named  Rene  Rodier  —  and  an  adjutant  (i.e.  sergeant), 
as  is  the  French  practice,  instead  of  a  commissioned  officer. 

He  took  his  seat  in  the  small  cockpit,  up  front  near  the  bow 
of  the  "bus,"  and  I  mine  about  5  feet  back  of  him.  He  explained 
how  to  signal  him  if  I  saw  any  Boche  planes,  nodded  ready,  and 
the  poilu  started  to  turn  the  long  propeller  blade.  Soon  the 
motor  started,  the  machine  was  turned  in  the  right  direction, 
the  motor  speeded  up  with  a  tremendous  roar  and  rush,  and  we 
started  over  the  ground  very  fast. 



I  looked  back  at  my  friends,  and  found  them  holding  on  to 
their  hats,  with  backs  turned,  in  an  awful  cloud  of  dust  from  the 
zephyr  originated  by  our  propeller.  In  5  seconds  they  were 
away  in  the  distance  and  then  we  started  up  and  left  all  cares 
behind;  said  good-bye  to  prosaic  Mother  Earth.  We  flew 
through  the  air:  now  low,  just  above  cathedral  spires,  closely 
clustered  red-tiled  roofs,  over  pastures,  woods,  and  workers  in 
the  fields,  skimming  the  tops  of  fortified  hills;  now  high,  just 
below  the  lofty  cumulus  clouds,  with  the  earth  on  an  apparently 
flat,  vari-colored  floor  beneath  us.  The  many  straight  and  curv- 
ing white  lines  are  roads,  the  patches  of  dark  green  are  forests, 
the  little  clusters  of  red  and  gray  spots  are  villages,  the  extensive 
straight-line  patterns  in  shades  of  brown,  red  and  yellow,  are 
cultivated  fields,  and  the  dark  curving  lines  disappearing  in  the 
haze  of  the  distance,  are  rivers. 

The  roar  of  the  motor  is  terrific,  the  blast  of  air  it  sends  back 
at  a  speed  of  150  miles  an  hour,  is  tremendous,  but  very  stimu- 
lating. I  lean  over  the  side  of  the  shining  framework,  and  see 
directly  under  us  the  zig-zag  lines  of  the  trenches.  Yonder 
lies  Germany,  and  the  enormous  power  of  the  Kaiser,  now 
struggling  mightily  in  its  death  throes,  a  land  in  which  every 
material  thing  is  now  marvellously  organized  for  the  purposes 
of  war,  death,  and  destruction. 

I  stand  up  in  my  little  pit,  only  to  be  bent  back  by  the  force 
of  the  wind.  Then  I  raise  the  semicircular  support  of  my  Lewis 
machine  gun,  and  brace  myself  erect  with  head  above  the  top 
wings.  It  is  glorious!  The  fresh  air  is  forced  into  my  throat 
and  nostrils;  the  quivering  machine  goes  steadily  along,  seem- 
ingly and  almost  actually  as  safe  and  sure  as  an  automobile 
or  express  train.  It  seems  as  though  the  leather  casque  would 
be  torn  from  my  head  by  the  air  blast.  Below  are  alternating 
lights  and  shades  of  the  cloud  patterns  on  the  earth,  just  above 
are  the  brilliant  sun  and  the  dazzling  white  clouds  themselves. 

A  short  distance  beneath  and  to  one  side,  is  my  friend,  wav- 
ing to  me  from  his  plane;    its  wide  stretch  of  taut  surfaces 



glistens  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  red,  white  and  blue  of  France 
and  America,  stands  out  on  the  top  of  each  wing,  painted  in  con- 
centric circles.  Oh,  this  flying  is  the  king  of  sports,  worth  living 
for,  or  dying  for.  What  matters  it  if  we  are  overtaken  by  sud- 
den oblivion  under  such  conditions?  It  is  an  ideal  death  com- 
pared to  being  dismembered  by  a  shell  in  a  hole;  even  the 
thought  of  it  causes  no  fear. 

Are  any  Boche  planes  in  sight?  I  adjust  my  mitrailleuse 
and  practise  sighting  at  various  angles  to  be  ready  for  emergen- 
cies. The  magazine  holds  94  rifle-calibre  cartridges,  in  series  of 
3,  standard,  tracer,  and  incendiary  bullets.  It  can  be  fired  from 
almost  any  angle. 

We  are  now  circling  down  towards  the  dots  which  represent 
my  regimental  echelon.  The  motor  has  been  cut  down  and  is 
less  noisy.  The  nose  of  the  plane  is  pointing  earthward,  with 
the  wings  tipping  an  angle  of  more  than  45  degrees.  To  my 
surprise  it  all  seems  normal  and  natural,  this  swooping  down 
from  the  skies.  The  machine  is  perfectly  steady  and  the  com- 
motion is  less.  There  are  no  strange  phj^sical  sensations  about 
it,  any  more  than  sitting  in  a  chair  on  the  veranda.  Compara- 
tively speaking,  descending  in  an  elevator  is  a  mild  adventure. 
It  takes  an  unexpected  length  of  time  to  descend  enough  to 
really  reach  the  warm  strata  of  air  and  make  the  acquaintance 
of  the  landscape.  Just  300  metres  below  is  my  battery  picket 
line,  with  150  horses,  and  the  roofs  of  the  "Adrian"  barracks. 
The  men  are  moving  dots.  We  circle  around  the  little  12th 
century  village,  between  the  hills,  and  the  little  stream  passing 
by  the  small  church  tower,  and  start  back  for  our  hangar. 

Flying  at  a  low  altitude  is  in  many  ways  more  interesting  than 
up  above,  though  more  dangerous  if  anything  goes  wrong.  One 
notices  then  the  speed,  which  is  not  the  case  up  in  the  clouds. 
It  is  the  difference  between  a  river  and  the  middle  of  the  ocean. 

The  hills  and  irregularities  of  the  ground  become  visible.  The 
little  goings  and  comings  on  the  earth  below  enter  into  our  con- 
sciousness, and  become  matters  of  interest. 



There  is  our  field.  We  circle  around  and  dive  down  just 
above  the  sheds,  to  attain  a  low  altitude  before  straightening 
out  for  our  first  contact  with  the  ground.  The  difficulty  and 
danger  of  landing  at  once  becomes  apparent  as  we  quietly  glide 
over  the  grass  at  50  or  60  miles  an  hour.  A  little  hillock  or 
bump  would  turn  us  over  and  destroy  the  machine. 

A  sudden  slight  jar,  and  in  a  moment  we  are  on  the  wheels, 
with  tail  dragging,  and  in  a  quarter  of  a  mile  have  stopped.  The 
motor  is  then  speeded  up  enough  to  roll  us  back  to  our  hangar. 

We  climb  out,  covered  with  smiles,  and  a  feeling  of  immense 
satisfaction,  and  remove  our  warm  heavy  clothing. 

It  was  perfect. 

In  a  letter  of  July  7  his  thoiightfulness  and  the  seri- 
ousness with  which  he  faced  the  future  were  strikingly 
revealed : 

Recently  I  read  an  article  in  the  May  Atlantic  Monthly  on 
"The  New  Death."  Possibly  I  can  appreciate  some  of  the 
things  stated  in  it  better  than  you  can.  But  we  do  hope  and 
believe  that  the  effort  we  are  making  here  will  be  for  the  greater 
good.  There  is  much  idealism  on  the  part  of  the  men  over  here 
to  which  they  have  not  the  time  or  inclination  or  ability  to  give 
utterance.  There  is  also  much  matter-of-factness,  disgust  with 
the  whole  business,  or  happy-go-lucky  acceptance  of  what  comes 
along.  It  is  true  that  the  majority  have  only  a  slight  conception 
of  what  they  are  getting  into,  before  they  leave  America.  It  is 
appalling  to  think  of  what  these  nations  have  suffered  during 
the  past  four  years.  But  after  a  while  one  gets  acclimated  to 
most  anything,  if  he  is  still  alive.  I  consider  that  I  have  had 
comparatively  a  very  easy  time  of  it  thus  far.  Life  never 
seemed  sweeter  or  better.  I  have  a  good  chance  to  survive, 
but  if  I  don't  my  great  wish  is  that  I  am  not  snuffed  out  in  some 
fool  way  by  a  shell  back  of  the  lines  but  rather  while  actively 
engaged  in  some  effort  really  worth  while. 



It  was  in  the  Aisne-Marne  offensive,  at  the  northern 
edge  of  Belleau  Wood,  that  Barton  was  killed  in  action, 
July  19,  1918.  He  was  sent  forward,  July  17,  as  liaison 
officer  with  the  infantry,  to  transmit  to  the  artillery  the 
requests  of  the  infantry,  and  to  help  in  directing  batteries 
against  the  German  machine  guns  and  other  targets  —  a 
hazardous  mission.  The  liaison  runner  who  accompanied 
him,  Private  John  F.  Walsh,  an  eye-witness  of  his  death, 
has  thus  described  the  scene: 

It  was  about  three  or  four  p.m.  We  were  lying  in  a  shell  hole, 
which  was  about  three  or  four  feet  deep,  for  protection.  We 
started  forward  to  get  the  wounded  and  bring  them  back.  After 
a  few  trips  we  sought  cover  in  another  shell  hole,  because  the 
barrage  was  heavy;    also,  machine  guns  were  sniping  us. 

When  it  quieted  down  a  bit,  I  saw  Lieutenant  Barton  start 
forward  again.  He  had  gone  about  forty  feet  when  I  saw  him 
throw  up  his  hands  and  fall  forward.  I  went  forward  to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  On  getting  there  I  found  he  was  dead  — 
killed  instantly  by  a  shell. 

In  General  Orders  from  the  Headquarters  of  the  26th 
Division  he  was  cited  in  the  following  terms: 

For  meritorious  service.  On  July  18  and  19,  1918,  during  the 
Aisne-Marne  offensive,  as  liaison  officer  of  the  infantry,  he 
went  forward  with  the  attack  of  the  infantry  on  Torcy.  At  the 
time  visibility  was  difficult,  owing  to  the  dense  mist  which 
covered  the  ground.  He  fearlessly,  under  heavy  machine  gun 
and  shell  fire  of  the  enemy,  went  to  the  most  forward  portions  of 
the  line,  obtaining  and  transmitting  to  the  artillery  exact  infor- 
mation of  great  value.  He  continued  to  expose  himself  in  the 
performance  of  his  duty  until  killed  by  enemy  shell  fire. 

A  strange  sequel  of  Barton's  death  was  that  when  his 
brother  and  sister  visited  the  scene  of  the  Belleau  Wood 



fight  in  January,  1919,  they  found  there  a  mud-stained 
handkerchief  marked  with  his  name,  and  that  still  later 
his  helmet,  inscribed  with  his  name  in  his  own  handwrit- 
ing, was  picked  up  on  the  field. 

A  poem  in  Barton's  memory  by  Eunice  Tietjens,  rounds 
out  the  record  of  his  life  in  the  expression  of  a  sorrow  and 
pride  which  soldiers  such  as  he  have  left  behind  them: 

This  Much  is  Left  Us  — 

The  guns  are  silent  noic,  and  all  the  dust 
Of  shattered  flesh  returned  into  the  earth. 
Friend  sleeps  with  foe,  nor  any  windy  gust, 
Nor  summer  rain  can  wake  them  to  new  birth. 

You  died,  then,  you  and  seven  million  more. 
You  died  for  home,  or  victory,  or  peace. 
These  things  we  have,  and  life's  much  as  before. 
Save  for  the  silence  where  your  voices  cease, 

Save  for  the  human  silences  that  come 
When  those  who  loved  you  suddenly  are  still 
Remembering  —  or  at  twilight  when  the  numb 
Sore  spot  in  the  mind  like  an  old  wound  aches  chill. 

Life  runs  the  same.     The  outer  shell  of  living 
Which,  when  we  lost  you,  covered  emptiness. 
Is  deepening  now,  is  taking  form,  and  giving 
Solidity  to  what  was  bodiless. 

Oh,  we  have  not  forgotten !     We  remember. 
Yet  we  have  lost  the  glory  of  your  days. 
Time  circles  still  from  spring  to  stark  December 
And  we  slip  back  into  the  trodden  ways. 



Yes,  we  grow  old.     And  our  once  naked  hearts 
That  glowed  like  steel  with  agony  and  wrath, 
Grow  dusty  with  long  days,  and  little  arts 
And  gracious  nothings  deck  the  aftermath. 

But  you  are  free,  who  went  in  that  white  glow 
And  laid  you  down  with  tragedy  for  bride; 
Life  cannot  touch  you;  you  can  never  grow 
Old  and  cold  and  dusty  at  our  side. 

For  you  are  youth,  who  now  have  cheated  time, 
And  you  are  courage  flung  against  the  sky  — 
One  with  all  radiant  things,  that  in  their  prime 
Are  frozen  into  beauty  when  they  die. 

And  death,  who  had  his  will  of  you,  can  never 
Still  that  high  courage  with  a  thousand  wars. 
And  we  who  love  you  hold  you  now  forever. 
As  wide  and  white  and  peaceful  as  the  stars. 



Class  of  1913 

\_yARLETON  Burr,  known  to  his  intimates  as 
"Chubby,"  was  a  son  of  Isaac  Tucker  Burr,  of  the  Har- 
vard Class  of  1879,  and  AHce  McChire  (Peters)  Burr.  He 
was  born  at  Milton,  Massachusetts,  August  29,  1891. 
After  attending  the  Noble  and  Greenough  School  in 
Boston,  as  a  younger  boy,  he  entered  Milton  Academy, 
from  which  he  graduated  in  1909.  Proceeding  immedi- 
ately to  Harvard,  where  he  became  a  member  of  the  In- 



stitute  of  1770,  D.  K.  E.,  Polo,  Kalumet,  O.K.,  Hasty 
Pudding,  and  A.  D.  Clubs,  he  graduated  from  college  with 
the  Class  of  1913. 

During  his  college  vacation  in  the  summer  of  1911,  his 
sister  has  written,  he  went  to  Newfoundland  with   the 
Grenfell  Association  and,  entering  with  the  true  spirit  of 
his  leader  into  its  work,  made  a  trip  with  Dr.  Grenfell  up 
the  Labrador  Coast,   visiting  the  natives   and   bringing 
them  relief.    Immediately  after  his  graduation  he  travelled 
through  the  West  with  his  classmate,  George  v.  L.  Meyer, 
Jr.,  out  to  the  Pacific,  and  then  on  a  hunting  trip  in  the 
mountains  of  Wyoming.    For  the  year  following  his  return 
from  this  trip  in  October,  1913,  he  worked  in  the  Boston 
office  of  Kidder,  Peabody  and  Company  during  the  week, 
as  he  expressed  it  in  a  Class  Report,  "and  watched  my 
friends  get  married  on  Saturdays."     The  next  autumn  he 
entered  the  employ  of  the  Paul  Revere  Trust  Company, 
with  which  he  remained  until  its  consolidation  with  the 
State  Street  Trust  Company,  in  January,  1916.     In  Feb- 
ruary, the  better  qualified  for  usefulness  by  the  training  of 
a  Plattsburg  camp  in  the  summer  of  1915,  he  set  sail  for 
France  with  his  classmate,  Oliver  Wolcott,  for  work  in 
the  American   Ambulance   Field   Service.     Immediately 
attached  to  Section  2  on  the  Verdun  front,  he  remained 
there  as  a  driver  until  June.    Then  he  was  transferred  to 
Section  9,  and  sent  to  the  Vosges  as  its  director.    He  con- 
tinued in  this  service  until  his  return  to  the  United  States 
early  in  February,  1917.    A  few  passages  from  the  letters 
he  wrote  to  his  family  during  this  year  at  the  front  are 



March  2,  1916. 

Jack  Brown,  who  has  just  returned  from  the  front  and  is  tak- 
ing La  Touraine  home  on  Saturday,  has  very  kindly  consented 
to  be  the  bearer  of  this  letter.  It  is  a  fortunate  opportunity  as, 
under  these  circumstances,  I  shall  be  able  to  write  very  freely 
and  to  enclose  these  photographs  which,  through  the  mail, 
would  probably  never  get  by  the  French  censor.  You  will  find 
on  the  back  of  each  photograph  a  full  explanation.  Very  un- 
fortunately, the  one  I  should  have  valued  most  did  not  come  out. 
It  was  a  close  view  of  the  new  ambulance  marked  "Francis 
Hardon  Burr."  ^  This  car  was  delivered  from  the  factory  about 
four  days  ago  (and  not  in  forty-eight  hours  as  Uncle  AUston 
expected),  and  was  taken  out  to  Section  3  (in  the  Vosges)  by 
Waldo  Pierce,  who  played  on  the  same  team  with  "Hooks." 

The  "Doc"  2  returned  from  the  front  yesterday,  where  he  has 
been  on  one  of  his  regular  rounds.  After  lunch  he  interviewed 
each  one  of  us  new  men  separately,  and  informed  us  where  we 
were  going,  with  the  special  injunction  that  we  should  tell  no 
one.  He  is  sending  O.  and  me  and  one  other  man  tomorrow  to 
Section  2,  which  is  now  operating  just  outside  of  Verdun,  at 
which  point  is  now  being  waged  probably  one  of  the  greatest 
battles  of  the  war.  Of  course,  we  are  thrilled  in  spite  of  all  the 
hardships  which  we  anticipate.  The  "Doc"  tells  us  that  this 
section  is  being  terribly  hard-worked,  that  both  men  and  cars 
are  continually  breaking  down,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  he 
is  sending  three  fresh  drivers  with  three  new  cars  to  relieve  the 
others  as  soon  as  possible.  Apparently  the  men  are  now  living 
in  an  old  barn  which  affords  practically  no  comforts.  They 
get  very  little  sleep,  and,  as  the  roads  are  in  frightful  condition, 
they  are  all  plastered  with  mud.  However,  as  O.  and  I  desired 
particularly  to  get  into  the  thick  of  it,  we  are  looking  forward 

^  Carleton  Burr's  cousin,  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  1909,  who  died  in 

2  A.Piatt  Andrew  (Harvard,  Ph.D.,  '00). 



eagerly  to  this  life.  The  trip  from  here  to  Verdun  will  probably 
take  us  three  days  and  will  be  all  the  way  through  the  famous 
battlefield  of  the  Marne.  We  shall  travel  in  convoy  with  a 
French  conducteur  on  the  first  machine. 

The  "Doc"  impressed  upon  us  particularly  that  in  our  letters 
home  all  we  could  mention  was  our  health  and  the  weather  and 
could  give  absolutely  no  description  of  our  whereabouts.  Ac- 
cordingly, as  both  these  topics  are  fairly  bromidic,  and  as  we 
expect  to  be  frightfully  busy,  you  will  probably  get  very  little 
news  from  me  in  the  next  few  weeks  unless,  of  course,  I  find 
another  special  despatch  bearer.  Don't  forget  that  I  shall  be 
always  most  grateful  for  news  from  home!  My  address  in  the 
future  will  be:  S.  S.  U.  2;  Convois  Automobiles,  par  B.  C.  M., 

S.  S.  U.  stands  for  Service  Sanitaire  United  States.  They  used 
to  have  an  A  (for  Americaine)  instead  of  the  U,  but  it  was  con- 
stantly being  confused  for  Anglais  and  they  were  accordingly 
forced  to  change.  Par  B.  C.  M.  means  "Through  the  Bureau 
Central  Militaire."  This  address  will  reach  me,  no  matter 
where  the  Section  may  be  moved.  By  the  way,  Section  2  is  the 
famous  one  of  which  Salisbury  is  the  leader  and  which  has  been 
glorified  by  Buswell  in  his  book. 

I  have  dined  almost  every  night  in  Paris  since  my  arrival 
here  with  either  Norman  Prince  or  Victor  Chapman  (both  of  the 
Flying  Corps)  or  Rex  Carey  of  the  Embassy.  The  many  incidents 
which  these  three  have  related  would  fill  a  volume,  and  I  am 
afraid  you  will  have  to  wait  till  I  get  home  to  hear  many  of  them. 
Victor  Chapman,  who  served  a  year  in  the  Foreign  Legion  and 
was  once  wounded,  was  really  the  most  interesting.  .  .  . 

It  has  been  very  striking  to  me,  from  the  bits  of  gossip  I  have 
picked  up  here  and  there,  to  learn  how  much  the  French  dislike 
the  English.  The  former  are  convinced  the  latter  are  shirking 
their  duties  on  land,  and  have  many  stories  to  corroborate  their 
beliefs.  Also,  the  unsupportable  manners  of  the  English  officers 
are  very  irritating  to  the  French.    There  is  no  doubt  that  if  the 



English  made  an  offensive  now,  it  would  do  much  to  relieve  the 

German  pressure  at  Verdun.    Of  course,  it  may  be  said  in  behalf 

of  the  English,  that  fighting  on  one's  own  territory  and  on  foreign 

soil  are  two  different  parts  of  speech;    which  fact,  I  think,  is 

frequently  overlooked  by  the  French. 

O.  and  I  were  remarking  only  last  night  as  to  how  callous  to 

present  conditions  we  had  both  become  in  only  one  week.    For 

instance,  when  we  landed  in  Bordeaux  we  almost  fell  over  each 

other  trying  to  get  a  photograph  of  a  man  in  one  of  the  new  steel 

helmets.     On  the  contrary,  the  other  night  we  casually  went 

to  sleep  while  some  of  the  French  75's  just  outside  the  city  were 

firing  at  a  supposed  Zeppelin.    The  whistle  of  the  shells  sounded 

to  me  more  like  a  high-pitched  tuning  fork  in  vibration  than 

anything  else  I  can  describe. 

Petit  Monthairons, 
March  13. 

Since  we  left  Paris  we  have  been  frightfully  busy,  but  almost 
every  moment  has  been  interesting.  We  had  a  most  fascinating 
trip  from  Paris  here  under  the  auspices  of  a  very  intelligent 
French  conduct eur  by  name  of  Wolf.  Our  way  took  us  through 
Meaux,  Montmirail,  St.  Dizier,  Bar-le-Duc,  Souilly  and  finally 
here.  The  first-named  place  marks  the  spot  at  which  the  Ger- 
man advance  to  the  east  of  Paris  was  checked.  All  the  way  we 
travelled  on  beautiful  roads  lined  on  either  side  with  lofty 
poplars  spaced  at  regular  intervals.  At  each  town  we  came  to 
we  were  held  up  by  a  sentry  demanding  our  papers,  and  were 
then  allowed  to  pass  through  the  picturesque  little  village 
crowded  to  the  breaking  point  with  reserve  troops  and  muni- 
tions.   It  certainly  made  my  blood  thrill. 

On  reaching  this  point,  late  on  the  second  night,  I  saw  at  a 
glance  what  we  were  up  against.  Petit  Monthairons  consists 
of  an  old  chateau  and  its  few  retaining  buildings.  I  guarantee 
you  will  not  be  able  to  find  it  on  any  map,  but  it  is  just  half- 
way between  Ancemont  and  Villers.  The  chateau  itself  is 
used  as  the  hospital.     Our  section,  including  as  many  more 



Frenchmen,  is  quartered  (on  straw  mattresses  and  brancards) 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  chateau  barn.  The  lower  portion  of  the 
same  building  is  utilized  as  a  coffin  factory.  Meals  are  served 
in  an  old  and  filthy  farmhouse  just  outside  the  walls  (about  the 
grounds).  Very  fortunately,  however,  there  was  no  room  in  the 
barn  for  any  more  when  we  arrived,  so  that,  after  spending  one 
almost  sleepless  night  in  our  ambulances,  O.  W.  and  I  and  two 
others  discovered  a  little  house  in  the  back  of  the  grounds,  built 
into  the  wall,  and  there  we  spread  our  straw  mattresses.  The 
house,  I  may  add,  has  not  as  much  floor  space  as  our  playhouse, 
but  is  much  more  massive  in  structure. 

Of  course  we  have  enough  thrills  to  keep  us  interested.  The 
Bodies  have  a  nice  little  gun  the  other  side  of  the  river  behind 
a  hill,  which  lets  us  know  of  its  existence  about  thrice  daily  by 
sending  over  shells  at  about  three-minute  intervals.  These  are 
aimed  evidently  at  Ancemont  and  Villers  respectively,  each  of 
which  is  a  considerable  traffic  centre.  Some  of  these  messengers 
come  excitingly  near  us,  however,  and,  in  fact,  one  shell  has 
already  removed  about  half  the  roof  of  a  small  building  not  over 
a  hundred  feet  from  the  chateau.  It  is  perfectly  wonderful  how 
quickly  man  adapts  himself  to  new  environments.  When  I  first 
got  here,  it  actually  annoyed  me  when  anyone  spoke  to  me,  as 
I  wished  to  concentrate  my  whole  attention  on  the  unceasing 
cannonading  which  is  ever  present  in  this  locality;  also,  I 
used  to  gape  open-mouthed  at  the  countless  aeroplanes  above, 
or  stand  by  the  roadside,  lost  in  admiration  and  wonderment 
at  the  endless  ravitaillement  or  convoys.  Now,  I  am  actually 
beginning  to  feel  that  my  life  would  be  incomplete  without  all 
these.  I  will  frankly  admit,  however,  that  I  do  not  believe  I 
shall  ever  feel  perfectly  at  home  with  shells  or,  more  especially, 
with  bombs  from  hostile  aeroplanes.  I  am  sure  that  on  my 
return  you  will  notice  a  marked  shrinkage  of  my  neck,  as  the 
result  of  pulling  my  head  down  into  my  collar  several  times 



March  22. 
.  .  .  This  life  is  a  fascinating  one,  as  every  day  brings  new 
incidents  into  one's  life.  My  only  regret  is  that  I  cannot  transfer 
to  you  at  home  my  many  and  varied  impressions,  but,  as  the 
Frenchman  says:  "II  ne  faut  pas  etre  difficile,  cest  la  guerre!^' 
This  philosophy  has  actually  become  already  a  part  of  my  exist- 
ence, and  I  assure  you  that  the  constant  rumble  of  artillery  is 
more  musical  to  my  ear  than  the  sordid  drone  of  the  ticker. 

April  1. 

...  I  belong  to  a  very  exclusive  little  club  here  now,  con- 
sisting of  the  local  coffin-maker,  an  infirmier  in  the  hospital, 
a  man  who  sluices  out  the  sinks,  and  myself.  We  four  have  had 
several  social  evenings  which  consist  chiefly  in  listening  to  the 
coffin-maker  sing.  Such  soirees  are  doing  much  to  improve  my 
French.  The  reason  I  became  a  member  of  this  select  circle  was 
because  I  bought  them  ten  litres  of  pinard  (red  wine)  the  last 
time  I  was  in  Bar-le-Duc.  One  could  buy  his  way  through  Hell 
in  this  country  with  pinard  or  cigarettes. 

At  several  different  times  lately  I  have  seen  Boche  prisoners 
trudging  along  the  roads  escorted  by  mounted  gendarmes,  and 
every  time  I  have  been  struck  by  the  youthful  appearance  of 
the  men.  Of  course,  both  armies  use  their  youngest  men  for 
attacking  purposes,  but  some  of  the  Germans  I  have  seen  could 
not  have  been  over  sixteen  or  seventeen.  Some  of  them  look 
scared  to  death,  but  for  the  most  part  they  are  smiling  and  cheer- 
ful and  seem  very  happy  at  the  thought  of  being  through  with 
it  all.  I  personally  do  not  blame  them  a  bit !  Unfortunately  it 
is  forbidden  to  speak  to  them,  otherwise  I  should  have  long  since 
attempted  to  exchange  cigarettes  with  one  in  return  for  his 
much  coveted  helmet. 

My  respect  for  the  Ford  as  an  automobile  has  augmented 
enormously  since  I  have  been  over  here.  As  an  ambulance, 
also,  it  is  far  more  practical  than  the  heavy,  cumbrous  vehicles 
of  the  French  and  British.  Of  course,  it  holds  only  three  couches, 
while  the  French  and  British  hold  double  the  number;   but  all 



the  blesses  much  prefer  to  ride  in  our  cars,  as  they  would  rather 
be  rocked  over  the  poor  loads  than  bumped  over  them.  The 
number  of  my  car  is  148,  and  on  its  side  it  bears  the  name  of 
*'Amory  Carhart."  I  have  never  heard  of  Amory,  but  if  he 
should  overhear  the  invectives  I  hurl  at  his  namesake  sometimes 
when  she  refuses  to  start  on  a  frosty  morning  he  might  almost 
feel  ashamed  of  himself  for  his  generosity.  I  don't  know  what 
he  'd  think  of  me ! 

Well,  I  must  start  old  148  in  order  to  warm  up  my  radiator 
water  for  a  shave.  Such  are  the  luxuries  of  life  when  one  is  in 
the  Army ! 

April  18. 
...  I  believe  I  witnessed  one  of  the  most  awful  spectacles 
the  other  day  which  any  morbid  character  could  ever  hope  to 
see.  Very  near  us  here  is  a  munition  park  where  thousands  of 
pounds  of  high  explosives,  in  one  form  or  another,  are  stored. 
Some  soldiers  were  loading  a  camion  (truck),  and  one  of  them 
must  have  dropped  a  case  of  grenades.  At  any  rate,  a  terrific 
explosion  ensued,  blowing  three  camions  into  atoms  and  literally 
spattering  seven  soldiers  and  four  horses  all  over  the  adjacent 
field.  Some  day,  if  you  so  desire,  I  will  give  you  the  minute 
details  of  that  scene  as  witnessed  by  my  own  eyes.  All  day 
long  I  had  a  little  tight  knot  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach  as  the 
result.  I  could  not  help  thinking,  also,  how  ghastly  it  would 
have  been  if  one  of  those  mangled  human  forms  had  been  some- 
one I  had  cared  for  in  life,  or  even  someone  I  had  known. 

But,  fortunately,  the  life  of  an  ambulance  driver  is  not  a  con- 
tinual "campaign  of  f rightfulness."  In  other  words,  one  is  not 
all  the  time  up  to  his  knees  in  blood.  In  fact  we  come  much 
more  in  personal  contact  with  the  live  and  active  troops  than 
we  do  with  the  blesses.  The  grands  blesses  are  loaded  into  our 
cars  by  lazy,  genial  brancardiers,  and  for  the  most  part  don't 
peep  until  we  reach  our  destination.  One  might  be  carrying  so 
many  barrels  of  apples  for  all  the  part  played  by  any  personal 
equation  in  such  a  transaction.     On  the  other  hand,  the  petits 



blessis  are,  for  the  most  part,  so  delighted  to  have  received  a 
bonne  hlessnre,  with  the  outlook  of  two  or  three  weeks  of 
repos,  that  one  cannot  but  rejoice  with  them.  One  certainly 
can't  blame  them  for  such  a  point  of  view!  Many  extremely 
interesting  experiences  are  related  to  us  by  the  blesses,  and  they 
are  always  ready  to  talk,  providing,  of  course,  that  they  are  not 
too  far  gone. 

June  2. 
S.  is  correct,  of  course,  in  his  statement  that  the  ambulance 
drivers  become  callous.  I  defy  anyone  to  do  the  work  we  are 
doing  and  not  become  callous !  After  all,  we  at  home  maintain 
a  certain  air  of  mystery  about  the  dead,  simply  because  we  are 
unaccustomed  to  seeing  men  die  or  even  after  they  are  dead. 
For  example,  now  it  would  not  give  me  a  qualm,  if  I  were 
wounded,  to  lie  in  an  ambulance  between  two  dead  men,  whereas 
at  the  beginning,  such  an  episode  would  have  made  the  cold 
chills  run  down  my  back.  I  think  we  all  over  here  have  much 
more  feeling  for  the  badly  wounded  than  we  have  for  the  dead. 
Surely  death  is  an  easy  relief  for  all  suffering !  .   .  . 

It  was  yesterday  at  high  noon  that  some  of  us  were  lounging 
about  our  cars  in  the  sunny  courtyard  of  one  of  the  hospitals 
situated  near  the  railroad  station.  Some  one,  looking  up,  per- 
ceived a  squadron  of  Boche  planes  so  high  in  air  that  they  gave 
the  appearance  of  being  pure  white.  It  was  not  long  before  the 
dreadful  whirring  of  a  bomb  was  heard  and  the  resultant  crash. 
The  first  bomb  was  followed  by  others  in  quick  succession.  It 
soon  became  evident  that  the  railroad  station  was  their  objec- 
tive, as  the  bombs  were  falling  thickest  in  this  location  although 
the  damage  done  was  by  no  means  confined  entirely  to  this 
area.  It  was  on  the  third  shot,  I  believe,  that  I  heard  the 
heart-rending  cry  of  a  wounded  woman.  Everyone  who  was 
able  jumped  for  some  cellar,  with  the  exception  of  our  Ambu- 
lance men  and  a  few  brancardiers.  Of  course,  when  we  heard 
the  whine  of  falling  bombs  we  would  flatten  ourselves  on  the 
street  and  await  the  crash.     I  remember  distinctly  doing  the 



"dip"  in  a  little  'place  in  which  I  was  alone.  I  had  not  time 
to  get  to  my  feet  before  another  bomb  would  start  falling.  The 
total  damage  was  thirty-eight  killed  and  one  hundred  and  eight 
w^ounded,  and,  with  the  exception  of  four  or  five,  every  one  of 
these  casualties  was  taken  to  the  nearest  hospital  by  an  Ameri- 
can Ambulance  man,  either  in  his  arms  or  in  his  car.  One  of 
our  cars  was  riddled  with  holes,  and  several  of  our  men  had 
miraculous  escapes.  Oliver  just  escaped  being  badly  hurt  by  a 
flying  brick.  Another  man  was  standing  within  fifteen  feet  of 
the  only  bomb  which  did  not  go  off,  when  it  landed.  In  short, 
all  our  men  behaved  themselves  wonderfully,  although  after- 
wards, when  comparing  notes,  we  each  admitted  having  been 
terrified.  The  hardest  thing  for  me  to  bear  was  the  sight  of 
wounded  children.  I  carried  in  my  arms  at  one  time  a  little 
girl  of  about  three  and  a  half  years,  with  her  little  fat  thigh 
riddled  with  holes.  Not  a  whimper  did  she  utter,  but  just  put 
her  little  arms  around  my  neck  and  hung  on.  I  have  heard 
since  that  she  died,  although  I  am  still  not  sure  of  it.  A  hun- 
dred and  one  similar  instances  occurred  which  I  shall  relate  to 
you  on  my  return.  The  net  result  for  us,  of  course,  was  that  we 
completely  won  the  favor  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  town,  and 
we  have  only  to  ride  through  the  streets  to  hear  the  frequent 
cries  of  ^'Vive  les  Americains!"  It  is  quite  a  different  attitude 
from  the  w  ay  in  which  we  were  received. 

July  9. 

Here  I  am  in  Bordeaux  again  and  many  miles  from  the  rattle 
of  musketry.  "Doc"  has  put  me  in  charge  of  a  squad  here, 
with  the  simple  little  object  of  unpacking  and  preparing  to  ship 
to  Paris  twenty-nine  new  Fords  which  have  just  been  landed. 
Although  I  have  been  here  for  three  days  now,  this  is  literally 
the  first  moment  I  have  been  able  to  call  my  own.  You  have 
no  idea  what  a  colossal  undertaking  this  is,  as  all  the  cars  have 
to  be  assembled  on  the  dock,  run  through  the  town  to  a  carpen- 
ter who  puts  on  temporary  wooden  bodies,  and  then  thoroughly 



oiled  and  greased  to  be  run  over  the  road  to  Paris.    I  expect  to 
be  here  for  at  least  a  week  more.  ... 

The  week  I  spent  in  Paris  was  an  extremely  busy  one,  as  I 

had  no  sooner  got  there  than  "Doc"  went  off  on  one  of  his  tours, 

leaving  me  in  charge  of  his  office.    The  work,  of  course,  was  all 

new,  but  I  managed  to  "get  away  with  it."     Nevertheless  I 

found  time  to  attend  Victor  Chapman's  funeral  services  in  the 

American  Church  on  the  morning  of  the  Fourth  of  July.     Of 

course  his  body  was  not  there,  as  he  fell  in  the  German  lines,  but 

a  more  simple  and  beautiful  service  I  never  attended.     The 

words,  "O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting,  O  grave,  where  is  thy 

victory?  "  never  had  a  fuller  meaning.    A  more  perfect  tribute, 

also,  than  the  short  sermon  delivered  by  the  clergyman,  no  man 

could  have  desired.    It  may  have  impressed  me  in  particular, 

owing  to  the  fact  that  I  had  dined  with  Victor  the  night  before 

he  was  killed.  .  .  . 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  Burr  accepted  the  appoint- 
ment as  director  of  Section  9  in  the  American  Ambulance 
Field  Service.  For  the  impression  he  had  already  made,  a 
letter  of  July,  1916,  from  Dr.  A.  Piatt  Andrew  to  Burr's 
mother,  speaks  in  no  uncertain  tone:  "I  have  come  not 
only  to  like  him  personally,  which  anyone  would  at  first 
glance,  but,  also,  to  have  real  esteem  for  his  abilities,  and 
his  qualities  of  mind  and  character.  We  have  asked 
Carleton  to  take  the  direction  of  a  new  section  which  we 
are  sending  into  the  field,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  fitted  by  his 
tact  and  his  unusual  combination  of  gentleness,  energy, 
and  force,  to  meet  the  very  difficult  task  of  handling  a 
group  of  volunteers." 

The  following  letters  were  written  from  his  new  post. 



August  18,  1916. 
Here  we  are,  as  a  section,  in  a  beautiful  little  town  in  the 
Vosges  Mountains.  Only  this  morning,  also,  your  cable,  stat- 
ing "under  circumstances  approve  Carleton's  staying,"  reached 
me  by  mail  from  Paris.  The  net  result  is  that  this  morning  I 
feel  perfectly  at  peace  with  the  world.  With  a  section  of  new 
cars  and  an  eager,  willing  bunch  of  men,  the  life  as  a  section 
leader  for  a  while,  at  least,  should  not  be  a  difficult  one.  Besides, 
as  an  officer  I  have  thus  far  been  billeted  in  a  private  room  with 
all  the  comforts  of  home.  It  has  its  distinct  advantages  over 
sleeping  in  one's  ambulance  or  in  a  filthy  barn,  I  assure  you! 

September  11. 

We  left  the  pare  of  this  army  in  France,  where  we  had  re- 
mained eight  days,  on  August  25,  and  took  up  our  position  and 
our  accompanying  duties  in  this  town  of  Alsace  on  the  same 
day.  A  lovelier  trip  across  the  frontier  pass  and  into  this  moun- 
tainous country  could  not  have  been  sought  for  anywhere, 
especially  in  the  clear,  dewy  light  of  that  early  morning.  That 
same  afternoon,  accompanied  by  the  lieutenant  of  the  French 
section,  whom  we  were  replacing,  as  guide,  our  lieutenant  and 
I  sallied  forth  to  visit  as  many  as  possible  of  the  posts  we  were 
to  serve.  These  are  divided  into  six  mountain  and  six  valley 
posts,  at  each  of  which  we  must  maintain  one  car  all  the  time. 
To  handle  this  work,  therefore,  we  have  divided  the  section  into 
three  squads  of  six  men  each,  maintaining  at  the  same  time  a 
reserve  of  two  cars  here  at  the  base  in  case  of  break-down  or  as 
a  relief  if  any  one  of  the  posts  should  be  over-worked.  .  .   . 

A  good  example  of  the  Alsatian  feelings  towards  Americans 
was  shown  to  me  the  other  day  in  visiting  Richard  Hall's  grave. 
In  the  beautiful  little  military  cemetery  in  which  he  is  buried 
I  found  his  grave  with  its  simple  wooden  cross,  bearing  his  name 
and  the  legend,  "  Mort  pour  la  patrie."  But  also  the  touch  of 
some  devoted  caretaker  was  present,  for  on  the  grave  itself  were 
growing  some  freshly-watered  little  flowering  plants.  Upon 
questioning  a  doctor  of  the  nearby  hospital,  I  found  that  ever 



since  Section  3  had  left  in  January,  two  girls  of  the  only  cafe  in 
town  had  voluntarily  assumed  the  role  of  caretakers.  Of  course 
I  paid  them  a  call,  and  found  them  just  as  nice  as  they  were  plain. 
They  seemed  to  consider  it  only  natural,  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
Hall,  several  times  before  his  death,  had  taken  his  meals  in  their 
establishment,  and  that,  as  he  had  left  no  immediate  friends  in 
this  neighborhood,  they  should  do  this  little  bit  in  his  behalf. 
This  is  a  typical  example  of  the  sympathetic  attention  we  en- 
counter at  every  turn  (not  that  we  have  selected  our  grave- 
tenders  as  yet !)  and  which  feeling,  I  am  convinced,  is  mothered 
only  by  intense  suffering.  The  peoples  of  Europe  should,  there- 
fore, gain  something,  if  only  morally,  out  of  this  miserable  war. 

A  letter  from  the  mother  of  Richard  Hall,  one  of  the 

first  American  ambidanciers  to  be  killed  in  the  war,  may 

well  be  introduced  in  this  place. 

A  BoRD  DE  La  Touraine, 
le  21  decembre  1916. 

My  dear  Mr.  Burr: 

Perhaps  your  son  has  written  you  that  Section  9  had  a  visit 
from  an  American  ambulance  "Mother"  when  my  son  and  I 
were  allowed  to  go  to  Alsace  to  see  the  places  where  our  own 
Section  3  worked  last  year  and  where  my  boy  Dick  gave  his 
life  for  the  cause  which  we  all  feel  is  our  own. 

I  had  fully  expected  to  go  up  to  Boston  for  a  day  on  my  re- 
turn, just  to  see  the  families  of  the  boys  who  gave  us  such  a 
hearty  welcome,  but  our  boat  is  so  late  that  I  can  barely  reach 
home  in  time  for  Christmas. 

I  want  to  tell  you  just  a  little  of  your  fine  handsome  son.  How 
he  is  respected  and  beloved  by  all  his  men,  although  he  has  had 
the  difficult  task  of  keeping  them  content  and  busy  when  there 
is  very  little  real  action  going  on  in  the  Vosges.  It  is,  however, 
a  much  busier  place  than  any  other  except  when  big  fighting  is  on, 
and  the  life  in  the  mountains  has  a  charm  all  its  own. 

Nothing  could  have  been  pleasanter  than  the  cordial  hospital- 



ity  shown  us  by  Section  9,  and  I  am  so  disappointed  not  to  be 
able  to  do  just  a  little  in  return.  The  boys  have  shown  every 
respect  to  the  memory  of  a  fallen  comrade,  and  I  shall  always 
feel  that  Section  9,  with  Carleton  Burr  as  leader,  is  very  near 
my  heart.  The  boys  all  look  well  and  strong  and  happy,  and 
it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  see  them. 

This  is  very  little,  but  perhaps  it  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  you 
and  your  family  to  have  a  word  from  some  one  who  has  seen 
your  son  so  recently. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

Elizabeth  D.  Hall. 

For  this  first  period  of  Burr's  service  abroad  one  more 
letter,  written  on  Christmas  Day,  1916,  will  speak. 

We  are  now  momentarily  settled  in  the  town  of  V ,  in 

which  I  spent  many  weeks  while  in  Section  2.  We  are  doing 
evacuation  work  to  the  rear,  and  are  waiting  patiently  to  be 
attached  to  a  division  and  then  sent  up  into  the  very  front  lines. 
We  are  now  in  the  position  to  need  a  little  blood  on  the  outside 
of  our  ambulances  to  make  the  men  appreciate  the  real  meaning 
of  this  work.  Young  men,  full  of  spirit,  have  got  to  be  in  the 
thick  of  it  (at  least,  for  a  while)  to  make  them  believe  that  they 
are  really  doing  something. 

This  morning  I  went  over  to  X ,  in  Argonne,  to  attend  the 

funeral  of  an  American  driver  named  Lines  ^  in  Section  1,  who 
died  day  before  yesterday  of  galloping  pneumonia.  With  me, 
from  this  section,  were  four  of  our  drivers,  among  them  George 
Lyman,  Jr.  There  was  a  large  attendance  of  French  officers, 
all  of  Section  1,  and  representatives  from  Sections  2,  4,  and 
9.  Also,  Dr.,  Mrs.,  and  Miss  Lines,  who  live  in  Paris,  ob- 
tained permission  to  attend  the  funeral.  Besides  these  were 
"Doc"  Andrew  and  Mr.  Robert  Bacon,  who  came  up  from 
Paris  for  the  occasion.    The  simple  military  service,  held  in  a 

^  For  memoir  of  Howard  Burchard  Lines,  see  Vol.  I  (p.  183)  of  this 



barn  for  a  chapel,  served  both  for  Lines  and  for  an  escaped  Rus- 
sian prisoner  who  had  died  at  the  same  time.  It  was  the  latter 
who  obtained  the  majority  of  my  sympathies  as,  having  escaped 
from  a  German  prison  camp,  he  successfully  crossed  "No  Man's 
Land,"  only  to  be  mortally  wounded  by  the  fire  of  a  French 
sentinel,  just  on  reaching  his  haven  of  refuge.  Solitary,  in  a 
strange  land,  he  met  death  at  the  hand  of  a  friend,  after  making 
a  brave  and  successful  attempt  to  escape  from  his  enemies.  It 
was  certainly  a  pathetic  case,  and  I  could  not  help  contrasting 
his  situation  to  that  of  Lines  who,  surrounded  by  friends  and 
admirers,  was  almost  royally  escorted  to  his  last  resting  place. 

Returning  to  the  United  States  in  February,  1917,  Burr 
entered  the  Boston  office  of  Stone  and  Webster  early  in 
the  following  month,  and  was  there  when  Congress  made 
its  declaration  of  war.  But  it  was  not  possible  for  him 
long  to  remain  there.  "He  once  remarked,"  his  sister  has 
written,  "that  war  is  Hell  because  boredom  is  Hell,  and 
the  slogan  of  the  Marines,  'First  to  Fight,'  attracted  him 
for  that  reason.  He  wanted  to  jump  right  into  active 
service,  and  he  had  a  dread  of  being  on  the  outskirts  of 
'the  big  game'  without  getting  into  it.  The  past  record 
of  the  Marines  all  over  the  world  indicated  that  they 
would  plunge  in  and  fight  to  the  finish."  It  was  therefore 
in  this  arm  of  the  national  service  that  he  sought  his  op- 
portunity, and  on  July  6,  1917,  with  his  Plattsburg  and 
ambulance  experience  in  his  favor,  was  commissioned 
second  lieutenant,  U.  S.  Marine  Corps.  A  period  of  special 
training  at  Quantico,  Virginia,  followed,  and  in  September 
he  sailed  for  France  with  the  6th  Regiment  of  Marines, 
2d  Division,  one  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  officers  chosen 
from  over  four  thousand  applicants. 



To  quote  again  from  his  sister's  words:  "After  a  note 
had  reached  his  family  that  he  had  sailed  from  Phila- 
delphia and  they  thought  him  well  on  his  way,  the 
telephone  rang,  and  his  voice  was  heard  as  though  from 
mid-ocean.  He  could  not  at  this  time  disclose  his  where- 
abouts, but  it  was  later  ascertained  that  his  steamer  had 
gone  from  Philadelphia  to  New  York,  there  to  join  her 
convoy.  Thus  he  had  an  opportunity  to  bid  his  family 
farewell  over  the  wire,  and  it  was  the  last  time  they  were 
ever  to  hear  his  voice. 

"After  reaching  France  the  6th  Marines  were  billeted 
in  a  town  where  he  was  made  mayor.  General  Catlin  in 
his  book  "With  the  Help  of  God  and  a  Few  Marines," 
remarks  on  his  work  as  follows:  'Because  of  his  initia- 
tive and  daring  he  was  made  intelligence  officer  of  the 
First  Brigade  and  achieved  some  remarkable  successes  at 
patrol  work  while  we  were  in  the  trenches.'" 

From  the  time  of  reaching  France  for  the  second  time. 
Burr  was  a  devoted  writer  of  letters  to  his  family.  Through 
passages  from  these  the  reader  will  learn  not  only  of  his 
work  in  the  regiment,  as  assistant  judge  advocate,  as  bat- 
talion intelligence  officer,  with  night  patrols  on  the  front 
line,  of  his  sojourns  in  hospital  —  once  to  recover  from  the 
effects  of  gassing  —  but  also,  by  inference,  much  about  his 
spirit  as  a  soldier  and  a  man. 

St.  Nazaire, 
October  21,  1917. 

We  arrived  here  in  this  uninteresting  port  on  October  5,  and 
landed  the  following  day.  Much  to  our  disgust  we  found  that 
the  5th  Regiment  of  Marines  (which  preceded  us  by  two  or 
three  months)  had  been  all  split  up  into  small  groups  and  were 



being  used  as  provost  guards  in  London,  Paris,  Bordeaux,  etc., 
etc.  I  fear  that  the  same  fate  awaits  us  and  the  best  to  be  hoped 
for  is  that  it  will  be  only  temporary.  It  is  true,  however,  that 
over  half  our  officers  have  been  sent  to  an  ecole  de  feu,  which 
looks  as  if  the  Marines  might  get  into  the  trenches  some  day  at 
least!     During  the  major's  absence  (he  being  among  those  at 

school),  Captain  x\ has  been  put  in  charge  of  the  battalion 

and  has  made  me  the  battalion  adjutant.  As  a  result,  I  ride 
around  in  a  little  motor-cycle  side-car,  and  generally  look 

This  is  a  typical  seaport  town  of  about  17,000  inhabitants, 
and  is  now  literally  infested  with  American  soldiers  of  all  ranks 
and  services.  Generally  speaking  tne  Americans  have  behaved 
themselves  pretty  well,  with  a  few  disgraceful  exceptions.  One 
law-abiding  French  civilian  was  knocked  over  the  head  and 
killed  by  a  drunken  Massachusetts  militiaman  for  refusing  the 
latter  another  drink.  A  few  days  later,  however,  one  of  our 
sailors  was  found  floating  in  the  river,  with  his  hands  tied  be- 
hind his  back.  Since  this  misunderstanding,  however,  there  has 
been  no  bloodshed. 

November  6. 

We  are  a  long  way  from  the  trenches  at  present,  with  very 
little  prospect  of  seeing  them  for  considerable  time  to  come.  It 
is,  of  course,  possible  that  we  (the  Marine  Corps)  shall  never  see 
them,  as  our  relationship  with  the  Army  is  none  too  cordial.  On 
the  other  hand.  General  Pershing,  who  made  a  minute  inspection 
of  our  camp  the  other  day,  did  nothing  but  pay  us  compliments 
all  the  time  he  was  here.  We  certainly  are  in  a  peculiar  situa- 
tion, in  explanation  of  which  there  is  undoubtedly  much  to  be 
said  on  both  sides. 

Someone  in  the  family  has  given  my  name  and  address  to  the 
Mattapan  Church.  I  have  received  notification  that  my  name 
is  posted  on  the  "Roll  of  Honor"  in  the  front  of  the  church. 
They,  in  turn,  have  given  my  name  to  all  sorts  of  Brotherhoods 
who  also  have  me  on  the  "Roll  of  Honor."    I  cannot  help  being 



tremendously  amused  at  the  holy  character  of  a  large  percentage 
of  my  mail,  but,  as  long  as  they  do  not  charge  me  membership 
dues  and,  by  their  prayers,  can  keep  me  off  the  real  "Roll  of 

Honor,"  I  shall  be  perfectly  satisfied. 

St.  Nazaire, 
November  19. 

Again  I  am  availing  myself  of  the  "underground"  to  write 
you  a  little  more  in  detail  of  life  as  it  is  in  St.  Nazaire.  To  be 
sure,  there  is  a  sameness  about  it  all  which  would  be  appalling 
if  it  were  not  for  the  indomitable  cheerfulness  of  all  Americans 
concerned,  which  is  due,  I  suppose,  to  the  thought  that  if  we 
kick  now,  what  shall  we  do  when  we  are  really  in  trouble.  The 
time  is  set  for  the  Marines  to  be  brigaded  as  the  latter  part  of 
December,  but  no  one  believes  that  this  will  be  really  possible 
until  at  least  the  end  of  January.  Then  will  follow  a  course  of 
two  months'  training  before  we  are  fit  to  take  our  place  in  line. 
This  means  that  the  end  of  March  or  early  April  should  find 
us  "up  to  our  knees  in  blood."  Many  French  officers  with 
whom  I  have  spoken  of  late  say  that  the  German  artillery  is 
showing  visible  signs  of  weakening  both  in  range  and  accuracy. 
It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  Allies  are  able  to  use  "tanks"  now, 
which  would  have  been  absolutely  useless  against  German  artil- 
lery of  two  years  ago.  I  know  this  statement  sounds  peculiar 
when  every  day  we  are  reading  of  fresh  German  advances  in 
Italy,  but  nevertheless  I  am  sure  there  must  be  some  truth  in 
it.  There  were  no  French  officers  making  any  such  statements 
in  July  when  I  left  here,  I  assure  you. 

December  6. 

On  entering  the  local  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  the  first  time  today,  I 
was  greeted  by  a  large  sign  on  the  wall  which  read: 
"Be  the  kind  of  man 
Your  mother  thinks  you  are." 

This,  I  am  frank  to  say,  aroused  me  to  some  serious  contem- 
plation, for,  I  suppose,  it  was  intended  as  a  stimulus  to  the 
performance  of  great  deeds  on  the  part  of  the  reader.    On  me, 



however,  this  advice  had  a  very  soothing,  almost  narcotic  effect, 
for  I  argued  to  myself,  "My  mother  knows  all  my  faults,  what 
is  the  use  of  my  trying  to  conceal  any  of  them  under  any  such 
boast?  She  knows  how  I  hate  to  write  letters  (especially  when 
I  have  nothing  to  say),  therefore,  why  write  any?"  etc.  Con- 
trary to  this  train  of  thought,  however,  here  I  am  once  again, 
pen  in  hand,  attempting  to  convey  to  you  my  personal  and 
confidential  ideas,  and  at  the  same  time  entirely  conscious  of 
the  fact  that  the  censor  is  ready  to  swat  me  if  I  digress  in  any 
way  from  the  stipulated  forms  and  regulations.  It  is  like  dis- 
cussing your  trade  secrets  when  your  biggest  competitor  is 
sitting  in  the  same  room  with  you !  Much  as  I  dislike  the  cen- 
sor, however,  I  have  a  tremendous  feeling  of  compassion  for 
him,  as  the  censorship  of  the  company  mail  is  one  of  my  tasks 
every  fifth  day.  If  you  knew  how  much  alike  and  how  terribly 
uninteresting  such  a  collection  of  mail  could  be,  you  would 
wonder  (as  I  often  do)  what  is  the  use  of  the  postal  system, 
anyhow?  At  very  irregular  intervals,  however,  I  am  reminded 
of  its  value  as  a  transmitter  of  joy  and  satisfaction,  when  a  ship 
comes  in  bringing  some  mail  from  home. 

The  General  Court  Martial,  on  which  I  am  now  serving, 
although  it  entails  considerable  extra  work,  is  really  very  in- 
teresting, as  every  case,  of  course,  presents  its  new  aspects. 
From  my  small  and  very  limited  experience  as  a  judge  advocate, 
I  realize  the  fact  that  to  be  an  expert  trial  lawyer  must  be  a 
fascinating  profession. 

The  friends  whom  I  mentioned  as  having  seen,  in  one  of  my 
early  letters,  have  long  since  left  for  fairer  climes  (or  rather,  for 
further  training  in  some  more  distant  camp).  At  present  there 
are  not  even  any  acquaintances  of  mine  in  any  of  the  neighbor- 
ing camps,  but  as  I  find  plenty  of  good  company  among  my 
fellow  Marine  officers,  I  am  not  at  any  loss  for  good  companion- 
ship. We  have  a  piano  installed  in  our  quarters,  and  there  is 
right  here  all  the  music  and  merriment  which  is  necessary  for 
the  full  enjoyment  of  life.    I  find  more  from  day  to  day  that 



there  is  a  certain  ease  (especially  in  reference  to  the  future)  con- 
nected with  this  military  life,  which,  if  I  ever  return  to  civil  life, 
will  be  very  difficult  to  shake  off.  The  fact  that  no  one  ever 
worries  about  the  future,  even  in  such  times  as  these,  is  certainly 
a  strong  recommendation  for  the  life  of  the  soldier.  The  great 
disadvantage  with  the  whole  scheme  is,  of  course,  that  you  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  in  the  selection  of  your  friends.  One 
immediate  superior,  who  is  a  mucker  and  out  of  sympathy  with 
all  you  do  (not  that  this  is  my  case),  may  absolutely  poison  your 
whole  outlook  on  life.  Also,  if  you  find  yourself  on  detached 
duty  with  one  other  officer,  whom  you  may  not  like,  and  with 
whom  you  are  accordingly  forced  into  extreme  intimacy,  then 
again  you  are  "out  of  luck."  As  a  whole,  in  this  battalion  we 
have  an  unusually  good  crowd  of  oflScers  and,  so  far,  I  have 
not  been  confronted  with  either  of  these  problems. 

Never,  in  all  my  life,  do  I  believe  I  have  written  so  much  and 
said  so  little.  I  believe  that,  at  this  rate,  on  my  return  to  the 
United  States,  I  shall  be  qualified  to  write  editorials  in  daily 

papers ! 

December  17. 

Uncertainty  as  to  our  future  plans  continues  as  heretofore. 
I  have  been  notified,  however,  that  when  we  go  to  the  trenches 
I  am  to  be  detached  from  the  75th  Co.  to  become  Battalion 
Intelligence  Officer.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  it  is  the  duty  of 
this  functionary  to  keep  constantly  posted  (by  fair  means  or 
foul)  as  to  what  troops  of  the  enemy  are  in  the  opposing  trenches. 

December  30. 
Here  I  am  once  again  a  free  lance,  having  spent  ten  miserable 
days  in  the  hospital  under  double  quarantine  with  the  measles! 
By  "double  quarantine,"  I  mean  that  I  was  confined  to  a  small 
room  in  an  army  hospital  which  was  itself  under  quarantine  on 
account  of  the  many  contagious  diseases  which  were  being 
cared  for  at  the  time  within  its  somber  walls.  Luckily,  letters 
and  boxes  from  the  outside  were  not  denied  me  so  that  with  all 
your  generous  gifts  my  Christmas  was  really  a  very  happy  one. 



January  21. 
We  are  now  only  a  few  miles  to  the  westward  of  where  I  spent 
my  first  four  months  as  head  of  Section  9,  although  I  had  never 
actually  been  in  this  sector  before.  Our  trip  up  here  was  con- 
siderable of  an  ordeal  for  all  concerned,  as  it  took  three  days 
and  three  nights  and  our  accommodations  were  miserable.  The 
men  were  crowded  in  "side-door  Pullmans"  (cattle  cars),  while 
the  officers  were  not  much  better  off  in  an  antiquated  railway 
carriage.  There  were  no  facilities  for  washing  and  we  had  to 
sleep  sitting  up,  so  that  we  were  both  filthy  and  tired  upon  our 
arrival.  We  pulled  in  at  3  a.m.,  at  which  time  I  was  detailed 
to  go  in  search  of  a  hospital  for  one  of  our  men  who  had  been 
seriously  hurt.  There  was  a  heavy  snow  on  the  ground,  and  it 
was  raining,  so  that  I  managed  to  get  soaking  wet,  in  which 
condition  I  remained  all  day.  I  had  only  just  been  released 
from  the  hospital  for  measles  a  few  days  before.  The  net  result 
was  that  the  following  day  I  developed  a  severe  cold  and  fever, 
and  only  just  escaped  pneumonia.  As  life  is  difficult  enough  for 
one  in  perfect  health,  my  condition  (which  lasted  about  ten 
days)  did  not  give  me  a  thrill.  However,  as  there  is  nothing  so 
bad  that  it  could  not  be  a  whole  lot  worse,  and  as  I  have  com- 
pletely recovered  now,  I  have  no  complaints. 

February  22. 
Next  week  I  go  to  school  for  a  week  to  learn  how  to  interpret 
aeroplane  photographs  in  connection  with  my  work  as  Intelli- 
gence Officer.  My  chief  duty  as  I.  O.,  however,  will  be  leading 
nightly  patrols  in  "No  Man's  Land."  I  have  had  the  pick  of 
the  battalion  in  choosing  my  men,  and,  unless  I  am  way  off  in 
my  judgment,  I  think  I  would  have  no  fear  in  going  anywhere 
(humanly  possible)  with  these  men  at  my  back.  Playing  "hide- 
and-seek"  with  German  patrols  for  such  big  stakes  is  going  to 
have  its  thrilling  moments,  I  am  sure. 

March  9. 

.  .  .  Do   you   remember   I    told    you    once   that    I  should 
rather  be  a  second  lieutenant  in  the  Marine  Corps  than  a  cap- 



tain  in  the  National  Army?  The  Marine  Corps  have  been 
used  almost  entirely  for  expeditionary  duty  in  the  past,  and  by 
experience  know  what  to  take  with  them  on  such  occasions.  .  .  . 
Now  that  the  Marine  Corps  have  decided  on  an  increase,  I 
shall  soon  be  a  first  lieutenant  and  possibly  a  captam.^  The 
Army  have  adopted  the  merit  system  for  their  expeditionary 
oflBcers,  which  system  I  hope  will  be  incorporated  in  the  Marine 
Corps,  as  in  times  like  these  the  best  officers  should  be  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  list  regardless  of  the  numbering. 

April  22. 
Did  you  ever  see  the  letter  written  by  a  British  "Tommy" 
to  his  wife  from  a  German  prison  camp,  which  ran  something 

as  follows : 

"German  Prison  Camp. 
"Dear  Wife: 

"Everything  is  fine.  I  have  a  nice  warm  bed  with  plenty  of 
blankets  in  some  fine  dry  barracks.  Getting  very  good  food  and 
plenty  of  it.  The  prison  warden  is  a  good-hearted  fellow  who 
looks  after  all  our  needs. 



"P.S.    Mike  Murphy  was  shot  this  morning  for  complaining." 

My  position  is  much  the  same,  only  in  my  case  it  would  be 
the  censor  who  would  do  the  shooting.  I  should,  of  course,  like 
to  enclose  maps  with  a  graphic  account  of  my  first  "hitch"  in 
the  trenches,  but,  taking  everything  into  consideration,  believe 
that  Tommy's  diplomacy  is  perhaps  the  wiser  course.  I  will 
not  carry  it  to  quite  the  same  extreme,  however,  as  everything 
I  shall  now  disclose  will  be  the  truth.  To  begin  with,  I  am  now 
in  a  rest  camp  a  few  miles  behind  the  lines  for  a  few  days  until 
the  battalion  again  goes  up  to  take  over  a  new  sector. 

To  return  to  the  subject  of  the  trenches,  can  you  imagine 
living  for  twenty  days  in  the  upper  berth  of  a  Pullman  train 

1  His  commissions  as  first  lieutenant,  and  shortly  afterwards  as  cap- 
tain, were  sent  later  but  did  not  reach  him. 



which  is  dripping  water  from  the  roof  and  which  is  Hterally  in- 
fested with  rats?  Everything  is  smeared  with  a  thick,  sticky 
mud,  and  there  is  no  Ught  except  that  given  forth  by  a  candle 
(if  you  have  one).  Everything,  however,  you  take  as  a  joke. 
There  are  two  things  which  impress  you  particularly  at  first: 
(1)  the  vast  amount  of  work  which  has  been  done  in  the  con- 
struction of  trenches  and  dug-outs  (there  are  literally  miles  and 
miles  of  trenches  in  one  small  area,  in  which  you  might  lose 
yourself  for  two  or  three  hours) ;  and  (2)  the  great  quantity  of 
enemy  shells  which  can  fall  right  in  your  midst  without  doing 
any  harm.  Unfortunately,  however,  the  latter  is  not  always  the 
case,  especially  when  the  Huns  send  over  two  or  three  hundred 
gas  shells  in  one  small  area.  .   .  . 

By  far  my  most  interesting  duty  while  in  the  front  line  was 
leading  patrols  in  No  Man's  Land  at  night.  I  think  I  can  safely 
say  that  I  have  been  as  near  the  Huns  as  one  can  get  in  France 
without  staying  over  there.  One  night  we  ran  into  a  heavy 
German  patrol,  and  it  did  my  heart  good  to  see  the  way  they 
cleared  out  before  we  could  close  on  them.  We  did  cut  some 
of  them  off,  however,  and  drove  them  down  on  to  a  French 
machine  gun  position.  .  .  .  There  is  one  thing  positive,  how- 
ever, and  that  is,  the  enemy  will  never  get  me  alone,  for  I  have 
the  most  wonderful  crew  of  youngsters  to  follow  me  you  can 
imagine.  They  would  never  leave  me  dead  or  wounded  to  the 
mercy  of  the  Hun.  This  must  sound  terribly  bloodthirsty  to 
you,  but  I  have  found  out  that  you  do  not  have  to  be  super- 
human or  abnormal  to  lead  this  life.  If  you  live  like  a  rat  you 
must  behave  like  a  rat,  and  it  is  only  human  nature  to  do  so. 
In  spite  of  all  the  hardships  you  never  hear  a  word  of  complaint, 
but  instead  everywhere  you  are  greeted  with  a  smile  or  some 
bit  of  humor. 

Ma7j  16. 

The  scarcity  of  my  letters  of  late  has  been  more  or  less  in- 
evitable owing  to  the  fact  that  we  have  been  on  the  move  and 
during  such  periods  our  regimental  post  office  ceases  to  function. 



My  part  in  every  move  has  been  a  very  interesting  one,  as  in 
my  temporary  capacity  of  Battalion  Billeting  Officer  I  have 
always  preceded  the  main  body  by  one  to  three  days.  We  have 
been  quartered  in  towns  (and  are  at  present)  where  there  have 
never  been  any  of  our  countrymen  before,  and,  needless  to  say, 
the  admiring  yokels  take  a  profound  interest  in  our  every  move. 
One  old  woman,  for  example,  expressed  profound  astonishment 
that  I  was  not  black;  another  asked  me  if  our  language  was  not 
something  like  that  of  the  Moroccans.  Everywhere  I  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  procession  of  old  men,  old  women,  children,  dogs  and 
geese.  With  all  their  curiosity  and  ignorance,  however,  they 
have  shown  a  sincere  gratitude  at  our  presence  and  have  done 
everything  to  make  things  easy  for  us.  Never  have  I  encount- 
ered any  objections  in  filling  their  barns  to  the  limit  with  our 
troops.  Of  course,  they  are  paid  five  cents  a  day  for  every  man 
quartered;  one  franc  a  day  is  the  rate  for  an  officer's  billet. 

May  30. 

We  are  at  present  quartered  in  a  beautiful  little  town  way 
behind  the  lines  where  everything  and  everybody  are  at  peace 
with  the  world.  This  is  not  quite  true,  either,  as  there  are 
ten  German  prisoners  employed  on  a  nearby  farm.  My  orderly 
saw  one  of  them  walking  down  a  side  street  alone  the  other 
day,  and  thought  he  was  escaping.  Accordingly,  my  trusted 
servant  drew  his  revolver  and  started  chasing  this  aforesaid 
prisoner,  creating  panic  in  a  mind  where  a  few  moments  before 
probably  no  thoughts  of  any  kind  existed.  Luckily  for  Ger- 
many, however,  a  French  officer,  wreathed  in  smiles,  stepped  in 
just  in  time  to  save  the  Hun  from  having  his  head  mashed  by 
the  butt  of  a  45-calibre  Colt.  .  .  . 

Please  do  not  worry  if  you  do  not  hear  from  me  regularly.  If 
anything  should  ever  happen  to  me,  you  would  be  notified  very 
soon  through  other  channels  anyway. 



Base  Hospital  No.  27, 
Angers,  France. 
{Undated;  received  June  28,  1918.) 

B 's  cable  stating  that  I  was  in  Paris  and  my  condition 

was  not  serious  must  have  given  you  a  start,  coming  as  it  did 
out  of  a  clear  sky.  Our  idea  in  sending  it,  however,  was  to  let 
you  know  before  the  casualty  list  was  published  that  there  was 
really  very  little  wrong  with  me.  It  was  just  hard  luck  that  a 
shell  containing  a  little  phosgene  and  arsenic  had  to  burst  right 
along  side  of  me  and  the  slimy  yellow  vapor  got  into  my  lungs 
before  I  had  time  to  adjust  my  mask.  The  result  was  that  I 
became  violently  ill  almost  immediately,  and  the  combination 
of  choking  and  convulsions  was  necessarily  considerable  strain 
on  my  heart.  Right  now  I  feel  almost  normal  except  for  an 
irritating  cough  and  a  burning  sensation  in  my  stomach,  espe- 
cially after  eating.  In  a  week  or  ten  days  I  expect  to  be  back 
again  with  my  organization  —  that  is,  what  is  left  of  it. 

Chateau  des  Hommeaux, 
Le  Lion  d'Angers, 
June  16. 

From  Paris,  where  I  last  wrote  you,  I  was  transferred  to 
Angers  in  a  sumptuous  American  Red  Cross  train.  I  had  not 
been  in  the  base  hospital  at  Angers  more  than  twenty-four 
hours,  however,  before  I  was  asked  by  the  doctor  in  charge  if 
I  wished  to  be  "farmed  out"  in  a  French  family,  to  which  (as 
you  will  remark  by  the  letter-head)  I  replied  in  the  affirmative. 
In  consequence,  Lieutenant  Shaler  Ladd,  U.  S.  Marines,  and 
I  were  conducted  by  M.  Gaston  Paris,  our  host,  to  his  chateau 
at  about  twenty-five  kilometres  from  Angers.  Every  since  we 
have  been  living  like  princes,  lolling  about  the  chateau  grounds, 
and  not  being  allowed  by  our  generous  hosts  to  turn  a  finger  for 

The  Paris  family  consist  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Paris  only.  He  is 
a  man  of  sixty  who  does  not  appear  over  forty  and  who  was  for 
many  years  French  consul-general  in  New  York,  thereby  speak- 
ing almost  perfect  English.    His  wife  has  been  an  invalid  for  a 



great  many  years,  and  her  health  has  not  been  improved  by  the 
loss  of  her  only  son,  a  very  promising  French  aviator,  who  was 
killed  at  Verdun  last  September. 

All  Americans  over  here  are  convinced  that  this  is  the  last 
battle  of  the  war,  as  the  Huns  are  making  such  a  terrific  effort, 
which  they  will  be  unable  to  maintain  indefinitely.  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  the  slaughter  we  performed  among  them  in  only 
one  small  sector  of  the  front.  Of  course  we  had  to  pay  for  it 
ourselves,  but  when  I  left  there  were  at  least  eight  dead  Germans 
for  every  dead  Marine.  If  all  Americans  fight  in  anything  like 
the  same  manner  that  the  First  and  Second  Divisions  have 
shown  themselves  capable  of,  I  think  undoubtedly  that  the 
Americans  will  prove  themselves  the  best  troops  in  this  war. 
They  have  the  physicjue  of  the  English  coupled  with  the  reck- 
lessness of  the  French,  which  is  going  to  be  pretty  hard  for  the 
Hun  to  stop. 

Base  Hospital  No.  27, 
July  7. 

The  time  is  approaching  very  rapidly  now  that  I  shall  be  re- 
turned to  my  organization.  I  assure  you  that  over  a  month  of 
hospital  life  is  not  the  king  of  indoor  sports  and  the  sooner  I  am 
discharged,  the  happier  I  shall  be.  The  only  thing  holding  me 
up  now  is  a  slight  infection  on  my  neck  which  has  refused  to 
heal  properly,  due  probably  to  my  run-down  condition  after 
being  gassed.  During  the  past  few  days,  however,  my  condi- 
tion has  shown  a  marked  improvement,  and  I  think  one  of  the 
next  two  or  three  days  will  see  me  on  my  way.  I  doubt  very 
much  if  I  shall  return  to  my  old  duty  as  Intelligence  Officer  of 
the  First  Battalion,  but  there  is  no  doubt  I  shall  be  returned  to 
my  regiment.  There  will  be  some  gaps  among  both  the  officers 
and  men  with  whom  I  have  served  all  these  months  which  will 
have  been  replaced  by  new  faces,  so  that  everything  is  bound  to 
appear  a  little  strange  whether  I  return  to  my  old  unit  or  not. 

There  is  a  very  genial  crowd  in  the  officers'  ward,  and,  as  we 
are  allowed  liberty  to  town  almost  every  afternoon,  life  has 



really  not  been  a  hardship.  The  French  certainly  extended 
themselves  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  which  they  celebrated  as  a 
national  holiday.  There  was  a  review  of  the  Allied  troops  in 
the  morning,  which  was  the  chief  event  of  the  day.  My  great- 
est amusement,  however,  was  with  a  very  pretty  little  French 
boy  (about  four  years  old),  dressed  as  Uncle  Sam,  who  refused 
to  leave  my  side.  Several  of  us  from  the  hospital  had  a  table 
in  a  sidewalk  cafe,  and  while  Uncle  Sam  was  not  sitting  in  my 
lap,  he  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  table  and  taking  off 
his  large  hat  with  great  solemnity  to  the  passers-by.  He  was  n't 
very  much  taller  than  the  beer  glasses  which  surrounded  him. 

A  week  after  writing  this  letter,  Burr  was  able  to  take 
part  in  the  Paris  parade  of  July  14.  On  the  18th,  the  day 
on  which  the  Foch  offensive  really  began,  he  rejoined  his 
command.  "The  next  day,  July  19,  1918,  at  9.30  a.m." 
—  to  turn  yet  again  to  the  words  of  his  sister  —  "he  was 
killed  in  action.  The  attack  started  at  8.15  a.m.,  and  they 
had  left  Vierzy  with  Hartennes  as  the  objective.  They 
were  soon  under  the  direct  fire  of  German  batteries  that 
were  sweeping  the  wheat  fields.  A  machine  gun  barrage 
was  also  helping  to  thin  out  the  ranks,  as  the  fields  they 
crossed  were  devoid  of  trees,  except  for  some  clumps  of 
bushes  lining  a  sunken  road.  A  piece  of  shrapnel  on 
which  Fate  had  inscribed  his  name  pierced  his  side,  and 
his  earthly  career  came  to  a  swift  and  peaceful  end.  In 
the  land  he  loved  next  to  his  own  he  will  always  lie,  con- 
tent that  he  could  give  his  all  to  a  cause  that  was  so  near 
to  his  heart.  On  that  day  the  bells  throughout  America 
were  joyfully  ringing  to  proclaim  the  turn  of  the  German 



Class  of  1918 

-LHiLiP  CuNNiNGHAMwas  bom  in  Gloucester,  Massa- 
chusetts, June  21,  1894,  of  an  old  New  England  family. 
Of  his  immediate  relatives,  an  uncle  (Guy  Cunningham, 
'87),  an  older  brother  (Allan  Rowe  Cunningham,  '09),  and 
two  cousins  were  Harvard  graduates.  His  parents  were 
William  Tarr  Cunningham,  a  banker,  and  Edith  (Rowe) 
Cunningham.  His  two  grandfathers,  each  at  the  early  age 
of  eighteen,  commanded  vessels  sailing  out  of  Gloucester, 
and  afterwards  established  themselves  as  owners  of  large 
fleets  of  fishing  schooners. 

While  a  child,  Cunningham  had  a  severe  attack  of 
pneumonia,  with  complications.  As  a  result  of  this  he 
lived  as  much  as  possible  in  the  open  air,  spending  several 



summers  at  Camp  Kineo,  Long  Lake,  Maine,  and  one 
winter  in  South  Carolina.  Here  he  could  gratify  his  love 
of  horses  by  riding.  As  a  result  of  this  outdoor  life,  and, 
more  than  all,  by  the  favorable  character  of  his  home  life, 
he  improved  his  health  so  that  when  he  answered  the  call 
to  war  he  had  such  vigor  and  endurance  that  he  was  en- 
tirely fit  for  the  arduous  duties  of  a  private  soldier.  His 
studies  preparatory  for  college  were  made  at  the  public 
schools  of  Gloucester,  and,  in  the  final  year,  at  Volk- 
mann's  School  in  Boston. 

At  college  he  became  a  member  of  Phi  Kappa  Epsilon 
and  the  Volkmann  School  Club,  and  interested  himself 
especially  in  history,  government,  and  economics.  His 
course  began  in  the  autumn  of  1914,  was  marked  by  his 
service  on  the  Mexican  border,  in  the  summer  of  1916,  as 
an  enthusiastic  member  of  Battery  A,  1st  Massachusetts 
Field  Artillery,  and  was  cut  short,  in  his  junior  year,  by 
his  leaving  Cambridge  shortly  before  the  declaration  of 
war,  to  enlist  in  the  aviation  service.  When  defective  eye- 
sight prevented  his  acceptance  by  the  government,  he 
went  to  Buffalo,  New  York,  for  instruction  in  the  private 
training  camp  of  the  Curtiss  Company.  From  Buffalo  he 
proceeded  to  Newport  News,  Virginia,  and  had  pursued 
his  course  to  the  point  of  receiving  credit  for  six  hours  in 
the  air  with  an  instructor  when  he  fell  ill  with  typhoid 
fever.  On  his  recovery,  his  furlough  having  expired,  he  de- 
cided, instead  of  taking  up  the  aviation  work  still  needed 
for  a  pilot's  license,  to  rejoin  the  battery  with  which  he 
had  served  on  the  border.  As  a  private  he  attached  him- 
self again  to  this  organization,  which  was  federahzed  July 
25,  1917,  and  afterwards  designated  Battery  A,  101st  Field 



Artillery,  26th  Division.  Cunningham  joined  it  at  Camp 
Boxford,  Massachusetts,  where  it  was  made  ready  to  sail 
for  France  on  September  9.  "His  attitude  toward  the 
European  war,"  an  intimate  classmate  has  written,  "was 
always  far  from  that  of  a  neutral." 

In  a  letter  from  the  Adriatic,  dated  September  11,  Cun- 
ningham described  the  mode  of  life  on  shipboard,  his  own 
"telegraph  work"  and  "digging  on  special  detail  stuff," 
and  cheered  his  family  with  the  final  words,  "believe  me 
—  I  am  having  the  time  of  my  young  life  thus  far."  From 
France  he  wrote,  December  6,  when  the  26th  Division  was 
receiving  its  final  training:  "Now  I  am  in  the  special 
detail  of  the  Battery  with  my  own  horse  and  interesting 
work.  As  I  told  you,  I  was  at  once  put  in  the  Wireless 
School,  where  I  have  had  almost  nothing  to  do.  Lately 
they  have  taken  me  more  and  more  for  Batteries  duties 
with  the  detail;  more  interesting,  more  work.  It  looks 
now  as  though  I  would  have  one  of  the  best  jobs  in  the 
army  for  a  private,  so  you  need  n't  worry." 

It  was  not  long  before  the  26th  began  its  active  service 
at  the  front.  In  "New  England  in  France,"  Major  Emer- 
son Gifford  Taylor's  history  of  the  division,  it  is  stated 
that  "the  first  shot  from  troops  of  the  National  Guard 
or  National  Army  against  the  Germans  was  fired  on 
February  5,  1918,  by  Number  One  piece.  Battery  A,  101st 
Field  Artillery,  at  3.45  p.m."  About  a  month  later,  Cim- 
ningham,  after  writing  (March  2),  "A  letter  is  a  Godsend, 
American  articles  too,  but  a  picture  of  a  well-known  face 
or  place  always  brings  you  people  to  me  with  astonishing 
vividness,"  proceeded: 



You  probably  know  we  have  been  at  the  front  for  some  time. 
It  is  nothing  at  all  like  my  dreams.  I  had  a  vivid  picture  in 
my  mind  of  a  dark,  muddy,  devastated  country,  four  or  five 
streams  of  crowded  traffic  on  every  wretched  road  with  autos 
and  motorcycles  shrieking  by,  —  the  whole  accompanied  by  a 
dull  (deafening)  roar  ahead.  Streams  of  ambulances  full  of 
groaning  men  and  endless  columns  of  fresh  troops  hurrying 

Au  lieu  de  cela  I  find  no  striking  differences  from  the  interior. 
At  times  there  is  a  distant  booming  of  guns  much  like  that  on 
the  range,  and  we  often  see  small  bodies  of  troops  or  supply 
trains  coming  or  going  but  the  total  brings  no  impression  of 
danger  or  action.  This  is  a  quiet  sector  and  I  have  spent  most 
of  my  time  with  the  horses,  back  of  the  lines,  but  I  am  certain 
that  the  feeling  is  almost  the  same  in  the  gun  pits.  It  may 
change  when  a  few  of  us  get  hit.  Our  own  infantry  is  in  front  and 
has  made  several  raids  for  which  it  has  been  cited. 

The  discomforts  of  existence  at  the  front  and  in  the 
"horse  cars"  used  for  the  transportation  of  troops,  figure 
in  later  letters,  together  with  assurances  that  all  was  going 
well  with  Cunningham  himself.  "I  hope  to  Heaven  you 
are  through  thinking  me  blue,"  he  wrote  April  10.  "There 
is  one  thing  in  the  world  to  mar  my  good  time,  and  that 
is  any  fear  I  may  have  of  not  being  worth  so  much  worry." 
In  the  same  letter  he  says,  "We  had  a  direct  wire  to  the 
'front  line  trenches,'  and  I  was  for  a  while  one  of  the  three 
operators  on  the  front  end.  At  another  time  I  was  in  a 
projector  relay,  at  another  working  at  the  telephone 
central  in  the  shipper's  oflBce." 

In  a  letter  of  June  3  there  is  a  picture  of  Cunningham's 
work  as  a  telephone  operator  which  contributes  to  an 



understanding   of   the   general   utility   of   the   American 
private : 

The  last  few  days  I  have  been  operating  the  switchboard  for 
the  regimental  headquarters.  My  shift  was  the  heavy  one 
from  three  to  ten  p.m.  I  thought  I  had  iron  nerves,  but  the 
first  night  I  was  some  wreck. 

In  the  first  place  it  was  practically  my  first  experience  at  any 
sort  of  switchboard  (I  have  not  had  more  than  a  few  hours  on 
a  quiet  eight-drop  board) .  This  was  a  twenty-drop  board  con- 
necting all  the  offices  and  officers  here  to  the  outside  world. 
At  first  with  a  sixteen-drop  board  I  had  only  two  possible 
routes  to  the  most  important  place.  In  one  room  were  the 
telephones  of  my  old  border  sergeant  now  captain,  the  regi- 
mental telephone  officer,  and  the  colonel.  One  mistake  is  the 
end  of  any  man  for  the  latter.    The  instant  penalty  is  "You  are 

relieved  from  duty,  — ■  you  will  report  to  ."    Imagine  me 

calling  the  general  for  the  colonel  through  about  eight  leaky 
lines  with  outsiders  coming  in  on  the  wires  all  down  the  line 
while  at  the  same  time  trying  to  do  similar  work  for  an  average 
waiting  list  of  half  a  dozen,  all  officers  and  all  insistent.  We 
cannot  finish  one  and  then  take  another.  Say  I  get  a  call  for 
"a."  I  call  central  1  and  ask  for  2.  Meanwhile  another  drop 
(call)  falls.  I  connect  him  with  my  line  to  1  and  find  he  wants 
"b."  Good.  Then,  or  during  the  conversation,  2  answers  and 
I  call  for  central  3  meanwhile  trying  desperately  to  keep  1  from 
cutting  the  connection  and,  after  connecting  my  line  to  you, 
ring  1-2  line,  asking  4  for  5  through  which  I  hope  to  get  "b" 
etc.,  etc.  It  is  simply  an  endless  collection  of  everyone  who 
calls  on  your  one  home  line  and  keeping  the  conversations  sorted. 
Imagine  the  general  finally  answering  the  phone  only  to  hear 
my  plaintive  voice  asking,  "Is  this  the  mess  sergeant?"  Also 
it  is  of  course  a  very  bad  break  to  allow  an  officer  to  hold  the 
line  when  his  junior  is  calling,  even  if  the  junior  has  hung  up  — 
either  tired  of  waiting  or  not  of  the  waiting  kind.  Of  course 
there  are  cases  where  I  can  get  away  with  a  thing  like  that. 



Do  you  wonder  I  was  some  dazed  to  get  all  this  in  one  shor